This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project
to make the world's books discoverable online.
It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject
to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books
are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover.
Marks, notations and other marginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the
publisher to a library and finally to you.
Usage guidelines
Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing this resource, we have taken steps to
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying.
We also ask that you:
+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for
personal, non-commercial purposes.
+ Refrain from automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help.
+ Maintain attribution The Google "watermark" you see on each file is essential for informing people about this project and helping them find
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it.
+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liability can be quite severe.
About Google Book Search
Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web
at|http : //books . google . com/
^1
THE FORUM
VOL. XLI
Januabt, 1909— June, 1909
NEW YORK :
THE FORUM PUBLISHING COMPANY
COPTRIOHT, 1909,
By the forum PUBLISHING COMPANY
NcjJ.iUlKV, (, iiv
f-'.'JK>.\K'y " / ^
INDEX OF VOL. XLI
•^ - PAGE
-^gis of Civil Service Reform,
The. By Henry Litchfield
West 401
"After-Election Boom," The. By
Alexander D. Noyes 9
Agnew, P. G.
What Is Pragmatism? 70
Alden and the New Realism, Mr.
By Frederic Taber Cooper... 284
Alfred Noyes on William Morris.
By Walter Clayton 176
American Politics, 1, 95, 199, 289, 401,
513.
American University on Trial, The.
By Abram S. Isaacs 439
Araminta ..33, 146, 242, 352, 458, 561
Back from the Hospital. By Lewis
Worthington Smith 90
Balkan Crisis and the Macedonian
Question, The. By Norman
Dwight Harris 102
Barker, Klsa,
Keats 288
Books Reviewed
Aloyse Valerin. By Edouard
Rod 78
Chapters of Opera. By Henry
Krehbiel 480
David Bran. By Morley Roberts 396
Egoists. By James Huneker.. 600
Eternal Boy, The. By Owen
Johnson 177
Fraternity. By John Galsworthy 390
Friendship Village. By Zona
Gale 89
Glass House, The. By Florence
Morse Kingsley 614
Gorgeous Isle, The. By Gertrude
Atherton 88
Great Miss Driver, The. By
Anthony Hope 88
Houses of Glass. By Helen
Mackay 397
FAGK
Immortal Moment, The. By May
Sinclair 8^
Inner Shrine, The. (Anonymous) 619
Life of James McNeill Whistler,
The. By Mr. and Mrs. Pennell 276
Love Letters of Thomas Carlyle
and Jane Welsh, The. Edited
by Alexander Carlyle 694
Magazine Writing and the New -
Literature. By Henry Mills
Alden 284
Making of Carlyle, The. By R.
S. Craig 594
My Story. By Hall Caine 398
Pilgrim's March, The. By H. H.
Bashford 392
Resemblance, A. By Clare Bene-
dict 394
Richard Mansfield. By Paul
Wilstach 281
Romance of a Plain Man, The.
By Ellen Glasgow 616
Sebastian. By Frank Danby... 482
Septimus. By W. J. Locke 180
Spell, The. By William Dana
Orcutt 617
Story of Thyrza, The. By Alice
Brown 39$
University Administration. By
Charles W. Eliot 380
When the Tide Turns. By Filson
Young 87
White Sister, The. By F. Marion
Crawford 6ia
William Morris. By Alfred
Noyes 175-
Wind in the Willows, The. By
Kenneth Grahame 85
British Colonial System, The. By
Annie G. Porritt 605.
Bruce, H. Addington
Future of America, The 384
INDEX
iii
PAGE
Bi/ton, Frederick R.
Unlearned Les-son from Wagner,
An 224
Bynner, Witter
Orbit, The 174
Chant Royal. By Marion Cum-
mings Stanley 611
Chesterton, Gilbert K.
Objections to Socialism 129
Clarke, George Herbert
Quo Abeo 55
Silent Sisters of the Poor, The. 223
Clayton, Walter
Alfred Noyes on William Morris 175
Interrupted Pan Resumes His
Piping, An 83
Cleveland, Reginald M.
Hope 551
Solitude 479
Colbron, Grace Isabel
Treasure-Trove of Memories, A. 480
Coming of Aphrodite, The. By
Charles T. Rogers 268
Congress and the Executive. By
Henry Litchfield West 1
Cooper, Frederic Taber
Alden and the New Realism, Mr. 284
Marion Crawford 488
Cost of Technique in Fiction, The.
By Philip Tillinghast 613
Crawford, Marion. By Frederic
T. Cooper 488
Crisis of the Novel in France, The.
By Albert Schinz 78
Davis, Lieut.-Commander Cleland
Patent Rights of Army and
Navy Officers, The 312
Drama, The . .23, 135, 213, 332, 444, 544
Plays Criticized
Bachelor, The 340
Barber of New Orleans, The. . 144
Battle, The 141
Blue Mouse, The 31
Chaperon, The 143
Climax, The 452
Conflict, The 451
Dawn of a To-morrow, The. . . 217
Disengaged 342
Easiest Way, The 215
PAGE
Englishman's Home, An 447
Fool There Was, A 448
Gay Life, The 548
Goddess of Reason, The 222
Going Some 453
Great John Ganton, The 550
Happy Marriage, The 455
House Next Door, The 454
Incubus, The 546
International Marriage, An . . 143
Kassa 221
jVIan From Mexico, The 551
Mary Jane's Pa 31
Meyer & Son 339
New Lady Bantock, The 221
Patriot, The 30
Return of Eve, The 341
Richest Girl, The 339
Sham 450
Stronger Sex, The 30
Third Degree, The 219
This Man and This Woman. . . 333
Ticey 32
Vampire, The 144
Votes for Women 341
What Every Woman Knows. . 137
Winterfeast, The 26
Woman of Impulse, A 337
Woman's Way, A 336
Writing on the Wall, The. . . . 549
Dramatic Literature and Theatric
Journalism. By Clayton Ham-
ilton 135
Eastman, Max
To the Tawny Thrush 233
Eaton, Walter Prichard
Forgotten American Poet, A 62
Eliot and His Book, President. By
Harry Thurston Peck 380
English Language in Porto Rico,
The. By Roland P. Falkner.. 206
Falkner, Roland P.
The English Language in Porto
Rico 206
Fiction of Some Importance. By
Philip Tillinghast 86, 389
Finance 9, 297
First Love. By Duncan C. Phillips,
Jr 379
/
qrii^f^
INDEX
PAGE
Flight, The. By Clinton Scollard. 241
Foreign Affairs. By Harry Thurs-
ton Peck 505
Forsitan. By Brian Hooker .... 527
Forgotten American Poet, A. By
Walter Prichard Eaton 62
"Frank Danby's" New Novel. By
Philip Tillinghast 482
French Poetry and English Readers.
By Brander Matthews 113
Future of America, The. By H.
Addington Bruce 384
Hagedorn, Hermann
Song from the Gardener's Lodge 101
Hamilton, Clayton
Dramatic Literature and Theatric
Journalism 135
Melodramas and Farces 23
Old Material and New Plays 444
Paucity of Themes in the Ameri-
can Theatre, The 544
Pleasant and Unpleasant Plays. 213
Promise of New Playwrights,
The 332
Richard Mansfield: The Man
and the Actor 281
Harris, Norman Dwight
Balkan Crisis and the Macedo-
nian Question, The 102
highland Wind, The. By Paul
Scott Mowrer 437
Hoeber, Arthur
Penneirs Book on Whistler, The 276
Unrest in Modern Art 628
Hoodlumism in Holiday Observ-
ance. By Mrs. Isaac L. Rice. 317
Hooker, Brian
Forsitan 527
Oneiros 185
Only a Little While 331
Rhythmic Relation of Prose and
Verse, The 424
Incoming of Taft's Administration,
The ^.... 199
Inspiring Orientalist, An. By
Albert Schinz 271
Interrupted Pan Resumes His
Piping, An. By Walter Clay-
ton 83
Isaacs, Abram S.
American University on Trial,
The 439
James Huneker, Individualist. By
Edward Clark Marsh 600
Keats. By Elsa Barker 288
Krapp, George Philip
Writing as a Fine Art 234
Legal Monstrosity of Our Patent
System, The. By H. Ward
I^onard 496
Leonard, II. Ward
Legal Monstrosity of Our Patent
System, The 496
Leonard, William Ellery
Vagabond, The 296
Lincoln's English. By Montgomery
Schuyler 120
Lodge, Sir Oliver
Thought Transference 56
Logan, Robert R.
Shadows, The 457
Looking Down from Lebanon. By
Clinton Scollard 350
Mackaye, Percy
Nativity of Lincoln, The 133
Mansfield, Richard : The Man and
the Actor. By Clayton Hamil-
ton 281
Marsh, Edward Clark
James Huneker, Individualist .... 600
Matthews, Brander
French Poetry and English
Readers 113
Maurice, Arthur Bartlett
New Grub Street, The 398
Reminiscent Call, The 177
Maxey, Edwin
Pan-American Railway, The . . . 552
Powers of the Speaker, The.... 344
Melodramas and Farces. By Clay-
ton Hamilton 23
Mowrer, Paul Scott
Highland W^ind, The 437
Nativity of Lincoln, The. By Percy
Mackaye 133
New Grub Street, Tlie. By Arthur
Bartlett Maurice 398
INDEX
PAGE
New Light on Carlyle. By William
Lyon Phelps 594
Noon in a Garden. By Charlotte
Elizabeth Wells 633
Novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward,
The. By William Lyon Phelps 323
Noyes, Alexander D.
"After-Election Boom," The 9
Turn in the Financial Situation,
The 297
Objections to Socialism. By Gil-
bert K. Chesterton 129
Old Material and New Plays. By
Clayton Hamilton 444
Oneiros. By Brian Hooker 185
Only a Little While. By Brian
Hooker 331
Orbit, The. By Witter Bynner ... 174
Outgoing of President Roosevelt's
Administration, The. By Henry
Litchfield West 95
Pan-American Railway, The, by
Edwin Maxey 552
Patent Laws
Legal Monstrosity of Our Patent
System. By H. Ward-
Leonard, The 496
Patent Rights of Army and
Navy Officers. By Lieut.-Com-
mander Cleland Davis 312
Suggestions for Amendments to
Our Patent Laws. By Isaac
L. Rice 189
Paucity of Themes in the Ameri-
can Theatre, The. By Clayton
Hamilton 544
Peck, Harry Thurston
Eliot and His Book, President. 380
Foreign Affairs 505
Pennells' Book on Whistler, The.
By Arthur Hoeber 276
Personal Visit to George Meredith,
A. By Galbraith Welch.... 521
Phelps, William Lyon
New Light on Carlyle 594
Novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward,
The 323
Phillips, Duncan C, Jr.
PAGE
First Love 379
Pleasant and Unpleasant Plays.
By Clayton Hamilton 213
Poetry
Back from the Hospital. By
Lewis Worthington Smith . . 90
Chant Royal. By Marion Cum-
mings Stanley 611
Coming of Aphrodite, The. By
Charles T. Rogers 268
First Love. By Duncan C.
Phillips, Jr 379
Flight, The. By Clinton Scollard 241
Forsitan. By Brian .Hooker. . 527
Highland Wind, The. By Paul
Scott Mowrer 437
Hope. By Reginald M. Cleveland 551
Keats. By Eisa Barker 288
Looking Down from Lebanon.
By Clinton Scollard 350
Nativity of Lincoln, The. By
Percy Mackaye 133
Noon in a Garden. By Charlotte
Elizabeth Wells 533
Oneiros. By Brian Hooker ... 185
Only a Little W^hile. By Brian
Hooker 331
Orbit, The. By Witter Bynner. 174
Quatrain. By Muriel Rice .... 22
Quo Abeo. By George Herbert
Clarke 55
Shadows, The. By Robert R.
Logan 457
Silent Sisters of the Poor, The.
By George Herbert Clarke ... 223
Solitude. By Reginald M. Cleve-
land 479
Song from the Gardener's Lodge.
By Hermann Hagedorn 101
Tawny Thrush, To the. By Max
Eastman 233
Vagabond, The. By William
Ellery I.eonard 206
Porritt, Annie G.
The British Colonial System 605
Powers of the Speaker, The. By
Edwin Maxey 344
President Taft and the South. By
Henry Litchfield West 289
INDEX
PAOB
Price of Popularity, The. By
Philip Tillinghast 180
Promise of New Playwrights, The,
By Clayton Hamilton 332
Qnatrain. By Muriel Rice 22
Quo Abeo. By George Herbert
Clarke 66
Reminiscent Call, The. By Arthur
Bartlett Maurice 177
Rhythmic Relation of Prose and
Verse, The. By Brian Hooker 424
Rice, Isaac L.
Suggestions for Amendments to
Our Patent Law 189
Rice, Mrs. Isaac L.
Hoodlumism in Holiday Observ-
ance 317
Rice, Muriel
Quatrain 22
Rogers, Charles T.
Coming of Aphrodite, The 268
Schinz, Albert
Crisis of the Novel in France,
The 78
Inspiring Orientalist, An 271
Schuyler, Montgomery
Lincoln's English 120
That "Universal Language" 534
Scollard, Clinton
Flight, The 241
Looking Down from Lebanon . . 350
Shadows, The. By Robert R.
Logan 457
Shall Incomes be Taxed? By Henry
Litchfield West 513
Silent Sisters of the Poor, The. By
George Herbert Clarke 223
Smith, Lewis Worth ington
Back from the Hospital 90
Snaith, J. C.
AraminU .33. 146, 242, 352, 458,561
Solitude. By Reginald M. Cleve-
land 479
Song from the Gardener's Lodge.
By Hermann Hagedom 101
Stanley, Marion Cummings
Chant Royal 611
Suggestions for Amendments to Our
Patent Laws. By Isaac L. Rice 189
PAGE
Sumner, William Graham
Witchcraft 410
Tawny Thrush, To the. By Max
Eastman 233
That "Universal Language." By
Montgomery Schuyler 534
Thought Transference. By Sir
Oliver Lodge 56
Tillinghast, Philip
Cost of Technique in Fiction, The 615
Fiction of Some Importance . .86, 389
"Frank Danby's" New Novel . . 482
Price of Popularity, The 180
Treasure-Trove of Memories, A.
By Grace Isabel Colbron 480
Turn in the Financial Situation,
The. By Alexander D. Noyes 297
Under the Spell of Protectionism.
By Louis Wlndmaller 492
Unl^med Lesson from Wagner,
An. By Frederick R. Burton 224
Unrest in Modem Art. By Arthur
Hoeber 528
\ragabond. The. By William
Ellery Leonard 296
Welch, Galbraith
Personal Visit to George Mere-
dith, A 521
Wells, Charlotte Elizabeth
Noon in a Garden 533
West, Henry Litchfield
iEgis of Civil Service Reform,
The 401
Congress and the Executive 1
Incoming of Taft's Administra-
tion, The 199
Outgoing of President Roose-
velt's Administration, The ... 95
President Taft and the South . , 289
Shall Incomes be Taxed ? 513
What Is Pragmatism? By P. J.
Agnew 70
Windmaller, Louis
Under the Spell of Protectionism 492
Witchcraft. By William Graham
Sumner 410
Writing as a Fine Art. By George
Philip Krapp 234
The Brum
January, 1909
AMERICAN POLITICS
CONGRESS AND THE EXECUTIVE
BY HENRY LITCHFIELD WEST
Thebe has been no lack of interest in politics since the din of the elec-
tion died away. The convening of Congress, the preliminary steps taken
by the Ways and Means Committee of the House of
Anomalies in Bepresentatives in the matter of tariff revision, the
Our Political resentment expressed in the House because the Presi-
System ^g^^ uttered some views in his annual message which
did not please the members of the lower branch of Con-
gress, the resurrection of the Brownsville affair in a message from the
President followed by a spirited debate in the Senate — ^these are but a
few of the incidents which have afforded topics for discussion in the
national capital.
The session last year was as calm and peaceful as a summer sea. The
election was pending and inaction was the adopted programme. Now the
elections are over and there is greater freedom on all sides. The mem-
bers who have been defeated are under no obligation to remain quiet, while
those who have been returned have not the fear of an immediate cam-
paign before their eyes. This situation attracts attention to an anomaly
in our political system. Some of these days, if the American people ever
amend their Constitution, it will be worth while to give careful considera-
tion to a proposition which will avoid participation by a defeated member
in further Congressional deliberation. Under the present system an elec-
tion is held in November and the Eepresentative who has been repudiated
by his constituents returns to Washington to wield a free lance. Some-
times defeated members do not take the trouble to return to the capital,
and even if they do occupy their seats they are naturally under the disad-
Permisiian to republish articles is reserved
r
2 THE FORUM
vantage of haviag been discredited at home. If there is no extra session
— and these sessions are held very infrequently — the new member does
not appear in Washington until thirteen months after he has been chosen.
By that time the issues which were paramount in the campaign may have
entirely disappeared, and, at any rate, it seems absurd for the newly
elected Eepresentative to remain away from his post of duty for more
than a year. The English system seems more sensible. In Great Britain,
as every one is aware, a Parliament is dissolved when the ministry is
overthrown. The question at issue is at once submitted to the people,
and when the result of the election has been made known, defeated mem-
bers retire to private life and their successors enter immediately upon the
discharge of their duties with the vital issue uppermost in their minds.
If it were not for the extra session which Mr. Taf t has decided to convene
early next March, the members of the House elected in November, 1908,
would not take the oath of oflSce until December, 1909. It is a long in-
terregnum, and some plan ought to be devised whereby it can be avoided.
There is another anomaly in our political system which ought to be
corrected. No provision exists for filling the office of President between
the time that formal declaration is made of the result of the count of the
electoral votes and the fourth of March, should the newly elected Presi-
dent die or become disabled in the meantime. The Constitution does not,
contrary to the general belief, provide that the President of the United
States shall serve until his successor is elected and qualifies. The Presi-
dents term of office is specifically limited to four years. He goes out of
office at noon on the fourth of March. Up to the present time, there has
never been occasion to discuss the question of his successor. If, through
some ill fortune, the problem should be presented, it is difficult to tell
how it would be solved.
Many years ago the late Senator Hoar, who was a great lawyer as
well as an able statesman, emphasized the existence of this grave omission
in our form of government and attempted to rectify it by suggesting a
Constitutional amendment, which he proposed should be submitted to the
several States for ratification, as follows:
Article XVI. In all cases not provided for by Article II, clause 6, of the
Constitution, where there is no person entitled to discharge the duties of the
office of the President, the same shall devolve upon the Vice-President. The
Congress may, by law, provide for the case where there is no person entitled
to hold the office of President or Vice-President, declaring what officer shall then
act as President, and such officer shall act accordingly until the disability shall
be removed or a President shall be elected.
This amendment was passed by the Senate, but failed of enactment
AMERICAN POLITICS 3
in the House. Consequently, if the calamity of Mr. Taft's death should
befall the country, there is no Constitutional solution of the question as
to Mr. Eoosevelt's successor. It is barely possible, in such a contingency,
that the electors in each State, although they had once convened and
registered their votes for President and Vice-President, might again as-
semble, and, in a second ballot, vote for the Vice-President to fill the
office of President, transmitting this record to the seat of government of
the TTnited States, directed to the President of the Senate. There is no
Constitutional provision, however, for this second convention, and the
proceeding would be, at best, a makeshift. It would be much better for
Congress to realize that no provision has yet been made for a contingency
such as has been suggested and remedy the defect as promptly as possible.
It is not a political question, in the partisan sense of the word, but it deals
most vitally with the uninterrupted continuance and stability of execu-
tive authority. It seems strange that no action has yet been taken, and
so averse are the American people to altering or amending the Constitu-
tion that it will probably necessitate the occurrence of some catastrophe
to awaken them to a realization of the situation.
The annual message of the President — a document, by the way, of
more than usual interest and ability — contained one paragraph which
aroused the resentment of Congress. After an investi-
Will History gation by the Committee on Appropriations, in which
Repeat it was shown that the duties of oflBcers of the United
Itself? States Secret Service had been considerably diverted
from the original intent of the law. Congress, at its last
session, provided in the bill making appropriations for sundry civil ex-
penses, that these secret service men should confine their work to the
detection of counterfeiters. In commenting upon this legislation the
President employed language which was not only critical but emphatic.
Without quoting the entire paragraph, its tenor may be gathered from
these three sentences :
It is not too much to say that this amendment has been of benefit only, and
could be of benefit only, to the criminal classes.
The chief argument in favor of the provision was that the Congressmen did
not themselves wish to be investigated by secret- service men.
But, if this is not considered desirable [the repeal of the law] a special ex-
ception could be made in the law prohibiting the use of the secret-service force in
investigating Members of Congress. It would be far better to do this than to do
what actually was done and strive to prevent or at least to hamper effective ac-
tion against criminals by the executive branch of the government.
r
4 THE FORUM
This declaration aroused considerable indignation in Congress^ espe-
cially in the House, and a resolution was introduced and passed authoriz-
ing the Speaker to appoint a committee of five Members '% consider
the statement contained in the message of the President and report to the
House what action, if any, should be taken in reference thereto/^ This com-
mittee has requested the President to furnish to the House the basis of his
statement and the Senate proposes an investigation of the secret service.
The President is thus afforded opportunity to make further contribution
upon the subject. The invitation of the House is undoubtedly most wel-
come to him, for he does not go into a struggle unprepared; and he must
have foreseen that his utterance would not be accepted without rebuke.
The episode is interesting because it recalls the famous incident of the
vote of censure passed by the Senate of the United States in 1834, when
the national bank question was the great issue in American affairs. The
resolution was introduced by Henry Clay and declared ''that the Presi-
dent, in the late executive proceedings in relation to the public revenue,
has assumed upon himself authority and power not conferred by the Con-
stitution and the laws, but in derogation of both.'' This resolution of
censure was passed by a vote of twenty-six to twenty. The question of
expunging the resolution from the records of the Senate came to be a
test of party fealty in succeeding elections, but it was not until January,
1837, three years after the passage of the resolution, that the Jackson
party secured a reversal of the Senate's action. The record is still to be
seen in the Senate files. Heavy black lines are drawn around the page
of the journal which contains the objectionable resolution, and across the
latter are written the words, ''expunged by order of the Senate, this six-
teenth day of January, 1837." It will be interesting to see whether the
House will pass a resolution of censure, and still more interesting to
observe whether, in the future, the resolution will be expunged. Jackson
felt very keenly the action of the Senate and regarded the final expunging
as a personal victory. Mr. Roosevelt, if the House takes formal action,
will certainly endeavor to convince the coimtry that he had ample ground
for his utterance ; and that he is able, in a public debate, to handle himself
with vigorous strength has been more than once demonstrated in the past.
If promises are not made to be broken, the next Congress will give
the country genuine tariff revision. Mr. Taft has served notice upon the
leaders in the House that he will be satisfied with nothing less than an
honest reform in the schedules, and Speaker Cannon and Chairman
Payne, of the Ways and Means Committee, have both indicated their
desire to accomplish this result.
AMERICAN POLITICS 5
In considering revision, Congress will, of course, bo confronted by
local interests ; and these interests are not confined to any particular sec-
tion nor to one political party. In Massachusetts there
is a demand for free hides from the Argentine Republic
Revision *^^ ^ tariff upon boots and shoes and leather goods; in
Texas and Wyoming and Iowa and Nebraska, the cattle
raiser insists upon a tariff on hides and free entry for boots
and shoes and leather goods ; the wool grower in the West wants a tariff on
his product, while the manufacturer in the East would like his raw mate-
rial, as he calls it, to enter free; Alabama and Pennsylvania are combined
in the effort to protect ore and steel ; the bidlder and the contractor would
like to know why steel rails sell more cheaply in England than they do in
this country; the furniture manufacturer in the Northwest wants free
lumber from Canada, and the owner of the pine forest in the South seeks
to increase the duty on the Canadian product; and the beet sugar manu-
facturer in Michigan and California prays for protection against the
sugar cane of the rest of the world. The hearings which are now being
conducted by the Ways and Means Committee indicate the extent of these
antagonistic views; and it will take wise statesmanship to adjust all the
differences so as to avoid injustice.
Then, too, the gauntlet of the Senate must be run. For many years
the Senate has had the final and all-important part to play in the framing
of a tariff bill. This was especially the case when the measure which
had been prepared in the House, under the leadership of the late William
L. Wilson, came into the hands of the late Senator Gorman and was re-
turned to the House with little remaining of the original bill except the
enacting clause. In order to account for the decisive part played by the
Senate in the final adjustment of the schedules, it is necessary to refer to
the conditions which exist in the two Houses of Congress. In the lower
branch the bill, when it has been reported by the Committee on Ways
and Means, will be taken up for discussion. A few days will be devoted
to general debate, and then, at a certain day and hour to be fixed by the
Committee on Bules, a vote will be taken upon the measure, even though
there may remain many pages of details which have not been considered.
The Bepublicans will vote for it, the Democrats against it; and it will
then go to the Senate. In that body, where there is no previous question
and where the right of debate is unlimited, there will be thorough dis-
cussion of each separate item in the bill. Every schedule will receive
consideration, and no vote will be taken until the last word has been
spoken, no matter if three months are consumed in apparently tedious
discussion. With the power in the hand of any Senator thus to command
Q THE FORUM
attention for those matters which are of vital importanoe to his oonstitn-
ento, the adjustment of schedules becomes a matter of extreme diplomacy.
Usually the Senate^ having arrived at a oondnsion concerning the char-
acter of the measure^ insists that the Honse shall follow its suggestions —
an insistence which more than once has been snccessfuL
No matter what the House may do, therefore, it is not worth while
to r^ard the new tariff as a law enacted until after the Senate has dis-
posed of the measure. There are high protectionists in the Senate as
there are in the House; but it is reasonable to believe that they will rec-
ognize the demand for a thorough revision and agree to a law which will
present a marked diminution in the schedules, certainly as respects the
industries which can no longer be r^arded as in the infant class. The
great mass of the people want a tariff bill that shall lower, if possible,
the price paid by the consumer without entailing either loss to the man
who has money invested in manufactures or a decrease of the wages paid
to the workingman. It is the reduction of the inordinate profits that
will be viewed by the public without r^ret ; and there is no doubt that
many industries which have been pampered beyond reason under the
regime of a high tariff can now afford to share some of their monopolistic
gains with the consumer. There does not exist in this country a general
sentiment for the abolition of the protective principle, but if the abuse
of this principle can be remedied in the new law a great feat in construc-
tive legislation will have been accomplished.
Once again much is being said regarding the necessity for changing
the rules of the House of Representatives. It is not a new story. Bep-
resentative Hepburn, of Iowa, who this year has gone
The Roles down to defeat, has been strenuously urging some re-
o£ the form in the matter of the rules for many years. The
House. fact that he has been leading a hopeless fight does not
seem to have abated the grim determination of Rej)-
resentative Gardner, of Massachusetts, to undertake the struggle again.
Mr. Gardner is an aggressive member, full of fight and seeking with the
ardor of youth to write for himself a name upon the wall of fame. The
likelihood is that he will gain nothing more than a brief notoriety, even
though he discusses the question with more than usual common sense. '^If
we members of the House,^* he says, "continue to adopt rules abandoning
our power and shifting our responsibility upon the Speaker's shoulders wc
must not go back to our constituents and cry T)ab/ because he exercises
that power, while we cheerfidly leave him to bear all responsibility.
This is the situation in a nutshell. It is entirely within the province
AMERICAN POLrncs 7
of the members of the House to frame rules which shall deprive the
Speaker of the tremendous power he now possesses. The trouble in the
past, however, has been that whenever these members were brought face
to face with the responsibility for adopting a new method, they have
meekly surrendered, and the Speaker has continued undisturbed in the
exercise of his great authority. When the Bepublican caucus meets at
the beginning of the next Congress some brave soul, like Mr. Gardner,
will unquestionably propose a change ; but when the vote shall have been
taken it will be found that the opposition will have mustered little more
than a corporal's guard. This does not mean, of course, that there is
no necessity or reason for a change. It means that no one will be ready
to ofifer a practical substitute for the present system, which will, there-
fore, be continued, while for the rest of the session disaffected Representa-
tives will declaim against a condition which they refused to remedy.
The present House rules had their birth in the stirring days when
the late Speaker Beed, finding the House Eepublican by the narrowest
margin, undertook to obtain a working majority by ousting Democrats
against whom the merest semblance of a contest could be made. During
the exciting struggle which accompanied the eliminating process, it be-
came necessary to govern the House with a rod of iron and the Reed
rules, so called, offered the requisite machinery. They gave to the
Speaker the most arbitrary and extended power. He appointed the com-
mittees, rewarding his friends and punishing his enemies, besides which
he was enabled so to frame the personnel of each committee as to make
it pigeon-hole or advance legislation in accord with his own views. He
named the committee on rules, which decides what matters shall or shall
not be considered by the House, and thus he was again supreme in the
matter of legislation; and, last of all, he could recognize or ignore
members upon the floor exactly as he was willing or not willing to allow
the member to be heard. Under this autocratic system the House has
been proceeding for some years. If it is unfair or arbitrary or unwise,
there is no one to blame except the members themselves; and yet, not-
withstanding all that has been said, it is very doubtful whether the in-
surgents can conduct a successful revolt against its readoption.
No one who knows Mr. Taf t will credit for a moment the statements
attributed to him to the effect that he proposed to make Congress obey
Congress ^^^ ^^ ®^®^ ^* ^® ^^^ ^ control the organization of the
and House. Unquestionably Mr. Taft has communicated to
Mr. Taft Mr. Cannon his views upon the tariff, this being, how-
ever, merely advance information, inasmuch as the same views will be
8 THE FORUM
expressed in a message to Congress at the opening of the extraordinary
session. He has not undertaken to insist that Congress shall pass tariff
legislation in accordance with his own views, with the threat that unless
his wishes are complied with, he will exercise the right of veto, and, in the
meantime, will see that a Speaker is elected who shall he suhservient to
his administration.
Mr. Taf t is an able and experienced lawyer. He knows the Constitu-
tion, and no one is better aware than he that the province of the Presi-
dent is purely executive, while the legislature is a co-ordinate branch of
the government. Above all, he is not likely to begin his administration
with a fight between himself and Congress. He is too wise and tactful.
He remembers how the administration of the late President Cleveland
went to pieces in the storm that raged between Congress and the execu-
tive. Nothing could be more fatal to his peace and comfort, to say noth-
ing of his hope of success, than to be engaged in a struggle with his
own party at the Capitol. It goes without saying, therefore, that he
will do nothing to invite this conflict. Congress will pursue the even
tenor of its way, legislating according to the dictates of its best judg-
ment, and Mr. Taft will afford encouragement and not throw obstacles
in its way. He will emphasize his views whenever he believes they will
be of value to his country and party; but the assertion that he will over-
throw Mr. Cannon and then undertake to bend the House to his supreme
will is as foreign to his character and purpose as can be imagined.
It seems now to be settled that Mr. Elihu Root will be the next Sena-
tor from the State of New York. The Empire State could not do a wiser
or a better thing. Mr. Root is to-day one of the ablest
Mr. Root ™®^ ^^ *^® United States. He has made a great Secre-
in the tary of State, developing in that position an instinct for
Senate diplomacy, in its broadest and best sense, such as has
not been witnessed for generations. His latest achieve-
ment, the agreement with Japan, brings to a fitting 'climax an official
career which has merited national appreciation. In the Senate Mr. Root
will be a tower of strength to the Republican Party. He is a forceful and
convincing speaker, and he is thoroughly acquainted with every phase of
law, national and international. His ability, dignity, experience and
great knowledge will combine to give him prominence; and while New
York may honor him, none the less will he honor the State of New York.
Henry Litchfield West.
FINANCE
THE ''AFTER-ELECTION BOOM'^
BY ALEXANDER D. NOTES
The ihree months which have just expired in the financial history
of the American commimity comprise a most remarkable period, finan-
cially, industrially, and, it is not too much to add, psychologically. They
embrace what seemed to be at one time a complete and absolute reversal
of conditions prevailing in American indusby and a return from dul-
ness and stagnation to a pitch of trade activity such as had possibly
not been witnessed since the boom of 1906» This led a very considerable
number of people to the conclusion that the effects of the panic of 1907
were passed and gone for good in the industrial world. Furthermore,
they were assumed to give the seal of fact to what had previously been
recorded as a mere figment of the imagination — namely, the supposition
that a result of the Presidential election of 1908, such as was favored
by the financial community, would of itself instantaneously turn financial
depression into actual 'T)Oom times."
Since much of the discussion of this period will, therefore, hinge
upon the results of the election itself, a few introductory words will
be in order regarding that event from the financial community's point
of view. It will be recalled that in previous discussions of the year's
financial events, attention has been attracted to the apparently confident
assumption that Mr. Taft would be elected, and that none of the usually
depressing infiuences of the Presidential contests per se nood be appre-
hended. It will also be remembered that in the middle of September
what was called an ^'election scare" spread suddenly throughout the
financial community. It was never altogether clear whether the violent
collapse which then occurred, during a period of two or three days, was
due to an actual change in the community's expectations or to the mere
fact that an over-done speculation, based on assumptions regarding trade
which had turned out incorrect, was bound to crumble in any event and
that the political argument had been trumped up as the most serviceable
explanation of it. However that may be, the Bryan scare of September
ended as suddenly as it began, and from that time on there was apparently
no diminution in the financial community's belief that Mr. Taft would
be elected. This wqs indicated by the extraordinary odds ojQEered in the
r
10 THE FORUM
betting on the curb. Two weeks before election, these odds were reported
as three to one against Mr. Bryan. Immediately before election, they
rose to the extravagant ratio of seven to one, which was exactly the same
as was offered on Mr. Roosevelt on the eve of the election of 1904. More
than this — and the fact has some bearing on what we shall have further
to consider — there was a rather striking consensus of opinion in con-
servative circles, both at home and abroad, that whatever the result of
the Presidential election might be, it could hardly affect materially the
business situation. It was pointed out, in statements by American busi-
ness men and in criticisms by foreign financial experts, that whatever
his individual opinions, Mr. Bryan could have no power over legislation
with a Senate that would certainly be hostile to him ; and furthermore,
that the currency, which was a vital factor in the Presidential contest
of 1896, had no part whatever in the electoral discussions of 1908. As
election day drew near, the market continued slowly to gain strength,
and on the very eve of the vote of November 3d it was stated, in home
and foreign financial circles, that the best financial judgment was for
a vigorous rise in prices on the Stock Exchange immediately after
election, to be followed by heavy realizing sales and a general
reaction.
It is not necessary to go into particulars regarding the extraordinary
popular vote and electoral majority which Mr. Taft received. From a
financial point of view, that vote itself was highly interesting because
of its refiection of financial and industrial conditions. From the time
of the panic of October, 1907, it had been declared and reiterated that,
whatever else could be said of election probabilities, the discontented
vote, due to the enormous number of laborers out of work, was bound to
make itself felt. The force of this argument was recognized all along
by those who believed in the probability of Mr. Taft's success. They
replied, however, that from the financial and the industrial, as well as
the political point of view, there were three offsetting considerations.
They admitted that no Presidential election in our history had ever
followed a first-class financial panic without resulting in a transfer of
the Presidency from the party in power to the opposition. They granted
fully the force of the precedent, notal)ly of the election of 1876, when
the depression following the panic of 1873 turned the largest popular
plurality ever gained by any party into an equally large plurality
for its opponent; and the election of 1892, when Mr. Cleveland
came in with a sweeping popular majority, replacing the Republican
incumbent.
On each of these occasions the completed figures^ of the popular vote
FINANCE 11
show that not less than half a million voters had swung from the admin-
istration party to the opposition. But^ granting all this, the following
answers were made: First, the Republican Party had polled in 1904 no
less a popular plurality than 2,500,000, whereas the popular plurality
of the administration party, in the election before 1873, was 764,991,
and in the election before 1893 only 369,066. In other words, the
transfer of a half a million votes, which was fatal to the party's hold
on power after the two preceding panics, would hardly be felt on the
enormous Republican plurality of 1904. This turned out in the event
to be strictly true; the revised figures appear to show a shifting of votes,
due probably to that cause, as large in 1908 as in 1896 or 1876, but it
left Mr. Taft with more than 1,000,000 plurality over Mr. Bryan.
Second, there was the natural argument that even the laboring element
had been led to associate Mr. Bryan's canvass with the hard times of
1896, and would therefore hesitate to prefer him now as a candidate.
Third, and apparently most important of all, the discontented voter, who
undoubtedly existed in the industrial East, could hardly be said to exist
in the agricultural West. Throughout the farming States, it would hardly
be correct to say that there has been any panic at all. The communities
have been prosperous to a large degree and have continued to prosper
throughout the period described as the after-panic reaction. Probably
these three influences would explain the vote; it is only necessary to
mention one rather remarkable fact, that it was in such industrial and
manufacturing States as New York and Connecticut that Mr. Taft's
popular majority actually increased over Mr. Roosevelt's of 1904, whereas
several of the agricultural States show a substantial diminution of the
majority four years ago. This would appear to indicate that the second
of the above-named arguments was more important than the third""
which, if true, would throw a singular light upon the general problem.
I have shown already what was the feeling of conservative classes in
the financial and industrial community, regarding the probable effect
of the election. All agreed that if Mr. Bryan were to
The Eve of ^ elected, there would be at least a temporary fall on
Election *^® Stock Exchange, and at least a temporary reaction
in business. How long such reaction could have con-
tinued under the circumstances, was a different question.
In the light of subsequent events, I think it perfectly safe to say that,
notwithstanding the dislike with which the election of Bryan would
certainly have been received in the financial and industrial communities,
it would not have required many weeks for the real needs of the con-
r
12 THE FORUM
snmiiig classes, with merchants' supplies as low as they certainly were
on the eve of election, to force quite as heavy a buying movement as
actually occurred on the news of Mr. Taf f s election.
Be that as it may. It is in any case a matter of conjecture, and does
not concern the history of the past three months, except in so far as
judgment on that point may have a bearing on the somewhat perverted
view of trade conditions, which we shall now see has actually pre-
vailed. In order to tell consecutively the whole story of the extraordinary
reception given by the various markets to the news of the election, it
will be as well to begin by describing the action of the Stock Exchange
itself, which then, as always, moved in the same direction as did general
trade, but with much greater rapidity.
The Stock Exchange was not slow in making arrangements for instan-
taneous discounting of the results of the election. The London Stock Ex-
change deals in American securities; it opens for trading at 11 a.h.
London time; which, allowing for the diflference between the two coun-
tries, is 6 A.H. New York time. Since Americans could thus be bought
and sold on a regular stock exchange at that hour, it was obviously to
the advantage of American speculators to be prepared to trade actively
in London before the New York Stock Exchange should open^ four hours
later. The manner of placing such trading facilities at the disposal of
their customers had been discovered by New York Stock Exchange houses
as long ago as 1896. In that year three or four firms of brokers, who
were the pioneers in this curious operation, engaged parlors at the Fifth
Avenue Hotel for the whole of election night.
These parlors were only partially equipped with telegraph and cable
connections, but the purpose of keeping them open was to give a head-
quarters for customers, who on receiving the actual news regarding the
McKinley-Bryan contest, would be able to place buying or selling orders
in their brokers' hands, those orders to be cabled as soon as possible to
London and executed next morning on the London Stock Exchange. In
1900, when McKinley again ran against Bryan, the same plan of action
was repeated, but on a very much larger scale. By that time many of
the Wall Street commission houses were maintaining uptown offices.
These they kept open throughout election night, having their own wires
running into the offices, and such of their competitors as did not already
have facilities of this sort very naturally engaged rooms in the same
district for a similar purpose.
In both cases the result of the voting was what speculative Wall
Street had wished, and brokers who had made this experiment were
favored with large buying orders to be cabled to London. The result
FINANCE 13
in 1896 was an advance of two to four points in American securities
abroad, before the New York market opened^ and a corresponding rise
of two to eight points in the first transactions on the New York Stock
Exchange. Then came a halt^ and next day an extremely heavy break
on realizing sales. The election boom of 1896 was distinctly over. In
1900, the case was slightly different^ because where industrial conditions
in November, 1896, were by no means .encouraging or promising, in 1900
they were the best that had probably ever been witnessed in this country.
Nevertheless, even in 1900 the four-point rise in London before our
opening, and the rise ranging from three to eleven points on the first
transactions in New York, brought about a quick reaction on which
Europe sold, so that the advance in prices was at least checked during
a period of a week or more.
On neither of these occasions, however, nor in 1904, when there
was much less excitement about the matter, was the ^^election nighf '
trading practised on the scale of last November. In all, there were
perhaps fifty Stock Exchange firms which kept open house for their
customers during election night. The news of Mr. Taft's sweeping
victory came in very early; the London end of this curious operation
had so far adapted itself to the American plan that the brokers gathered
on the curb at 7.30 a.m. London time, or three hours and a half before
the formal Stock Exchange opening even in London. On this early curb
trading were executed buying orders for New York account amounting
to fully 200,000 shares — comparing, according to one estimate, with
75,000 shares thus bought on election night of 1904, 100,000 shares in
1900, and 176,000 in 1896.
By this use of the London curb market, American stocks had been
bid up one to two and a half points before even the London Stock Ex-
change itself opened; the curious result being that
The 40,000 to 60,000* shares bought earlier on the curb were
"Outside sold in London before business opened in New York.
Public" When the New York Stock Exchange opened business
at 10 A.M., it had, therefore, a rather mixed initiative
from London. Prices advanced, however, one to two points on the
opening transactions; then, after taking breath, the market was suddenly
flooded with a mass of outside buying orders from all parts of the
country, which brought the volume of the day's business to the largest
figures of the year. On Monday, for instance, the day before election,
half a million shares changed hands on the New York Stock Exchange;
on Wednesday, the day after election, 13,660,000 were sold.
14 THE FORUM
This volume of business did not slacken; neither did the inpouring
of buying orders from customers in New York and from clients who
wired their orders from all parts of the country. Trading continued
at a volume not far from 1,600,000 shares a day; on four days of the
week after election, it exceeded that figure. On each of those occasions,
it was the testimony of Wall Street commission houses that the outside
public, for the first time since ISlOl, had absolutely taken the bit in its
teeth and was rimning away with the market. Needless to say, the
advance in prices under such circumstances was exceptionally violent.
During the four days after election, advances of three to ten points were
too numerous to require particidar attention ; in tha next week, further
advances of two to twelve points were equally numerous, and the move-
ment continued, though at a slackened pace, during the three weeks
after election.
So much, then, for the attitude of the outside public. Its motive
in this violent and quite unexpected outburst of buying has been a matter
of discussion ever since. It proved beyond question, to begin with, two
facts — ^first, that the public at large was not in a poverty-stricken con-
dition, but had money to spend or to waste. Second, it proved that the
temper of the community was not only optimistic, but disposed to specu-
late on such optimism. Oh these two points there can be no possible
dispute.
But so very extraordinary a movement as actually did occur cannot
be wholly explained in that way. It is one thing to prove that the public
was able to create such a demonstration ; it is another thing to show why
that particular time should have been chosen to do it. For example, the
boom in stocks during July evoked no such support by the public. There
are several possible answers to this curious question. That which will
naturally occur to mind is the theory that, since the election of a candi-
date favored by the financial community in 1904 and 1900 had actually
been followed by a great trade boom— in the case of 1900 by the quite
unparalleled boom of 1901 — the speculative public, and, perhaps, the
investing public too, drew the deduction that the same thing would
happen under what they regarded as similar circumstances now. Further
than this, it must be observed that Mr. Taft^s party, and Mr. Taft him-
self, had made the sure return of great prosperity in case of his election
one of their principal arguments before the people. Mr. Taft himself
had gone so far — not very creditably, it appears to me — as to predict not
only such prosperity in the event of his own election, but adversity if
his opponent were successful, and to intimate, in no very obscure or
indirect way, that not only was the panic of 1893 caused by the Demo-
FINANCE 15
cratic experiments with the tariff in 1894, but that the fifty-cent price
for wheats which made farming unprofitable in. 1896, was somehow a
result of Democratic administration. N^obody need have very strong
political leanings in either direction to treat these stump arguments with
the contempt which they deserve; nevertheless, it must not be overlooked
that a very great many people may have accepted such assurances at their
face value, and may have acted accordingly in the market.
I have said that this sudden outburst by the speculative public was
wholly unexpected by Wall Street itself, and by the conservative banking
community as a whole. There is reason to believe that
Attitude of *^® ^^^8® financiers who operate habitually in securities
Large in this country had accimiulated a considerable amount
Capitalists of stocks, which they expected to sell to the outside
public during the boom of the first day or two after
election, and to buy back again in the reaction which they believed
would follow. This reaction did not come. Europe was a heavy seller
of securities, tempted by the extravagant rise in prices a fortnight after
election, and it was these sales which brought about the movement of
foreign exchange against this country. The so-called "professional con-
tingent' on the Stock Exchange was also a heavy seller, and apparently
without producing any effect upon the market. Finally, the large inside
operators themselves apparently sold stocks according to their plans, and
those, too, were absorbed by the excited public in its after-election demand.
To such a pass did this movement of outsiders come that it called forth
the following statement by a very eminent financier, believed to have been
Mr. E. H. Harriman, which was circulated among his colleagues in high
finance about the middle of November :
"Business is good and it will be better, but the state of the Stock Exchange
is unfortunate. The moyement has gone beyond safe bounds. The pace has been
too fast. Professional speculators, together with the outside crowd, have made
the situation on 'change dangerous.' A halt should be called.
"A slump is imminent, and if it occurs, financial leaders will be blamed. This
would be unfair and unjust, for the leaders have deprecated the manipulation and
the growing craze for some time. It is not so much a question of intrinsic worth
as of wild and furious speculation on the part of people not easily controlled."
We have seen that this excitement of the outside public was based
largely on a definite expectation of a great ^'trade boom." Now, the
curious port of the history of last November is that the trade boom also
seemed to have arrived according to expectation. That there would be
r
Ig THE FORUM
Bome considerable quickening of industrial activity after November 3d
was expected by all merchants and manufacturers. The very obvious
reason for it was^ that a good many orders had been held
Th "Trade ^^^^ iiom the manufacturers, through doubt as to how
Boom*' *^® election would turn out and as to how the mercan-
tile and consuming public would be affected in case
Mr. Bryan were elected. It has been sometimes asked
why there were no such held-over orders at the time of the 1904 election.
The answer is, that in 1904 the actual demand from middlemen and
consumers for immediate consumption was so heavy that no merchant
could afford to let his stock on hand run low. Had he done so, he would
have run the risk of being left without supplies a few weeks later, when
his competitors might be able to fill demands atid get his trade away
from him.
The case at the end of October, 1908, was altogether different. De-
mand from real consumers. was extremely slack; it was safe to have small
stocks on merchants' shelves and in their yards; and, more than this,
when hardly one-half of the countr/s producing capacity was busy, there
was a minimum of risk in waiting to have orders filled a week or two
later on. This explains suflSciently the holding up of orders; and the
fact that a considerable volume of business was thus postponed from
October gave assurance, in any case, that trade activity would be greatly
stimulated after election. For obviously, it would be the desire of the
buyers to get their materials in hand with reasonable promptness after
the election had been settled. Therefore there need not in any case have
been surprise at the substantial increase of activity in all the country's
industries after November 3d.
It remains to consider exactly what happened in general trade to
give ground for the extraordinary outburst of enthusiasm on the Stock
Exchange which we have already seen. The deferred orders, which had
been held back pending the uncertainty over the election, came into the
market, as was expected, and in greater volume than had been supposed.
During the two weeks following the election there was unquestionably a
very substantial increase in general business. Middlemen who had
allowed their stocks on hand to fall to very low figures lost no time in
transferring their orders to the manufacturers, and the placing of so
large a number of orders gave an aspect of unusual activity to almost
all trades.
This, it may be observed, was in substance no. different from what
happened in February and again in Jidy. The volume of business was,
however, much greater than on those occasions ; first, because the revival
FINANCE 17
occurred at a time of year when business is normally more active than
at any other season ; second, because the wheat crop, owing to the lowness
of supplies in storehouses and the high price commanded on the market,
was brought from farm to market and sold at an exceptionally early date.
This last consideration is by no means unimportant. It was estimated,
in the middle of November, that as much wheat from the harvest of
1908 had been delivered and sold by the farmers as is usually disposed
of up to December 31st. The natural result of such an early marketing
would be to put the agricultural community in ample funds and to give
encouragement for merchants throughout that section of the country.
It may thus be seen that the sudden increase of business after Novem-
ber 3d was in itself neither abnormal nor surprising. But a little of
the excitement which had seized upon the Stock Ex-
yfi^^ change took possession of the merchants and manu-
Actually f acturers also. The manufacturers in particular, seeing
Happened this active demand, began at once in many directions
to mark up prices for their commodities. The first
effect of this policy was to increase buying orders from the middlemen,
who naturally feared that a still further advance might presently be
made. But within two weeks they discovered another side of the ques-
tion. In the first place, the consecutive marking up of prices began
to bring goods to a level where the business judgment of the merchants
made the operation somewhat doubtful; and at the same time, their
own effort to dispose in advance of the goods for which they were con-
tracting did not meet with quite the reception which they had looked
for. Even in the agricultural districts, they found the retail buyers to
be cautious and not over-enthusiastic; in fact, it has been a curious
phenomenon of the season that what may be called the trade enthusiasm
over the election has been experienced much less vigorously in the pros-
perous agricultural districts than in the centre of depression in the East.
That was what actually happened in the channels of trade. The story
which the newspapers of the general public got was something very
different. Day after day the leading newspapers of the country wrote
up what they called "prosperity articles," describing the utterly abnormal
volume of business which had suddenly swept over the entire country,
and intimating in no uncertain way that the United States had suddenly
— overnight, as it were — ^retumed to the sweeping volume of trade and
production of such years as 1905 and 1906. These accounts of the
industrial boom had a very considerable effect in stimulating the excited
feelings of Wall Street. They may have had some, even in stirring up
/
18 THE FORUM
excitement in mercantile circles. The stories published, while this process
was going on, were of a most extravagant order. One would hear that
all the mills in a given industry were so choked with new orders that
they could not fill them before March; if the account were to be believed,
industry had taken a turn which, during the rest of the winter, would
severely tax the available facilities of all our manufacturers.
It hardly need be said that these accounts were for the most part
written by ill-informed newspaper reporters and correspondents, who
were making the most of their story. When one turned to the important
trade organs, he foimd no repetition of such extravagances. The
Iron Age, habitually one of the most cautious and conservative trade
authorities, described the outburst of enthusiasm as a '^general hurrah of
exaggeration and misstatement.^' Other trade publications took a similar
tone — ^many of them, especially in the textile trade, urging the manu-
facturers to be careful about putting up their prices, at a time when real
demand from consumers had not yet recovered from the prostration of
panic. It stated that if they were to do this, they would run the risk
of spoiling their own market, as actually happened, under not at all
dissimilar circumstances, in 1895, when a premature belief that all the
eflEects of panic had passed by led to a high speculation throughout the
domain of American industry, with such advances in prices as drove oflf
consumers, heavily increased the import of foreign goods, occasioned a
very large import of gold, and eventually left the merchants at the end
of the season with enormous amounts of unsold goods on their hands.
With all these warnings, and despite the much more cautious policy
which manufacturers and merchants began to put into practice, the idea
of a complete revolution in trade conditions continued
Testimony ^ prevail. One reason for this was that no trustworthy
of statistics came to hand during several weeks to show ex-
Figures actly what the change had really been. It was not imtil
the first week of December that the basic truth in the
matter came into public view, in the shape of the figures of iron produc-
tion in the United States during November.
Those figures were naturally to be relied upon for providing sure testi-
mony to what had actually happened in the way of trade revival — ^not
alone because iron is the industry which reficcts any general movement of
the sort, but also because the newspaper stories of November had chiefiy
converged on the steel and iron trade. The statement for November
showed that the countr/s iron production in that month had increased
only 4 per cent, over October; that on December 1st, the producing ca-
FINANCE 19
pacity of the iron foundries was only 5 per cent, greater than on Novem-
ber Ist; that the daily rate of iron production in November was 13 per
cent, less than even in the panic month of November, 1907, and 28 per
ceni less than in November, 1906. What made this showing still more
remarkable was the fact that the actual increase in November output, as
compared with October, was 10,700 tons; whereas the similar increase
in October over the preceding month had been 47,500 ; in September, 69,-
000; in AugBst, 141,000; and in July, 126,000.
Following this statement came a carefully collated estimate, that the
United States Steel Corporation, at the beginning of December, had only
68^ to 60 per cent, of its capacity. Other evidences, by no means con-
firming the enthusiastic views of November, came promptly to hand. For
one thing, it was of course to be assumed, if industry had started up at
the rate described, that employment of labor would increase along with
it. But nothing of the kind happened. Since the beginning of the year,
one of the most extraordinary indications of the existing state of things
had been the fact that emigration of laborers from America had become
greater than immigration. A few weeks after election, lotwithstanding
a rather large increase in the number of immigrants brought in, it was
still possible to say that more laborers were leaving the United States at
the Atlantic ports than were coming in ; the excess for a single week at
the close of November being 1,200. It should also be manifest that, if
80 great a trade revival were under way, railroad traflSc would expand with
it. Now, railroad traffic is to be measured, not alone by railway earnings,
but by the number of cars in use. In the middle of November, 1907, the
American Bailway Association reported that the companies had 44,800
less cars than they needed for immediate traffic orders at the depth of the
residtant period of trade reaction ; it was reported, in the middle of April,
that there was an idle surplus of 413,000 cars. This large number of
side-tracked cars decreased gradually after that time, and the reduction
became rapid when the wheat crop began its early movement. At the
end of October, immediately before Election Day, the number of idle
cars reported was 100,000. Instead of decreasing further, however — ^as
it should have done, with the enormous trade supposed to be in progress —
this total of idle cars actually increased to 109,000 on November 11th, to
123,000 on November 26th, and to 174,000 on December 9th. The rail-
way men fully understood this part of the situation. Asked in the mid-
dle of November if the railways, with their supposedly increased traffic,
woidd not now come into the market as heavy buyers of rails and equip-
ment, Mr. James J. HiU replied:
"Conditions are improving undoubtedly, but we [the Great Northern Rail-
r
20 THE FOBUM
way] have fifty locomotives stored away which have never had steam in them.
Until they are put in use, I do not think that we will place orders for new ones.**
A week later President E. P. Bipley, of the Atchison, thus replied to
the same question:
"I think it would be a mistake to assume that the improvement in business
has been marked. There has been some increase on our lines in the general mer-
chandise movement, but it is limited chiefly to supplies for farming communities.
In new enterprises there has been very little improvement.
"I would not be surprised if it should turn out that the earlier movement of
the crops this year has brought the railroads increased business at this time for
which they will have to pay later. The roads are not likely, I think, to order any
large amount of new material for some time to come. Last year and the year
before the railroads overbought, and many of them will be able, I think, to go
along for twelve months without buying any large amounts of material.''
It must not be supposed, from the foregoing description, that the
state of aflfairs was actually unfavorable, or that the reaction from the
first fortnight of November must go further. On the
'jljg contrary, general testimony was to the eflfect that the
Real course of events in industrial circles, during November,
Position as a whole, was distinctly favorable, and that the move-
ment of recovery, though slow, was progressive and sure
— ^not less so, indeed, from the fact that the exaggerated stories of
November had turned out to be untrue. Various views are taken by people
in a position to judge as to when a turn into genuine trade activity would
come. At first there was rather a general prediction that such a change
would follow the ending of the old year ; later on, when it was seen that
the aggressive demands of the first fortnight after election had subsided,
these forecasts pushed the date along to the middle of 1909. On this
point, opinion will probably continue to differ. It is safest to assume a
moderate rate of progress, with the actual date depending on such con-
siderations as next year's agricultural yield and the action of the specula-
tive markets between now and then, but with the general tendency
undoubtedly towards the return of better times.
On the Stock Exchange, the course of events, after it had plainly
appeared that the stories of an after-election trade boom were unfounded,
became such as to puzzle all observers. In the first place, the outside pub-
lic, having had its two weeks' fiing in speculation, abandoned the market,
and prices broke sharply. It is probable that the best judgment then was
to the effect that we should have a further break, a moderate recovery,
and then a month or two of quiet markets. But this is exactly what did
not occur. No doubt the professional speculators made up their mind
FINANCE 21
that they could not- let go so promising an opportunity until they had
fairly squeezed the orange dry. At all events, a most remarkable change
came over the Wall Street market toward the end of November. Instead
of the continuous and general buying of stocks for the outside public, the
speculative issues were taken in hand by the most daring sort of manip-
ulators, who would put up prices of one or another stock two or three
points in a single day, without the slightest news to justify it and with-
out the slightest reference to what other stocks were doing. In fact, there
were days when one group of stocks would be rising, while another group
was falling with rapidity. In time, the market was left practically to the
auspices of two sets of reckless professional manipulators, one operating
for the rise and the other for the fall. This lasted until well on in
December, when the speculation reached its inevitable culmination.
That ending of the speculative movement came largely as a result of
the money market's action. We have seen, in previous numbers of The
Forum, how the bank position at New York grew to almost unexampled
strength as a consequence of the keeping up of idle cash in the city re-
serves. At the close of August, the surplus reserve of the New York banks
had reached the astonishing figure of $65,000,000. From that time on,
however, a progressiva decrease had occurred. At the end of October,
the surplus reserve was only $33,600,000, which, however, was still larger
by far than had been reported at that date in any year since the other
after panic of 1894. With the November market, began, first an extrava-
gant increase in loans to the Stock Exchange; next, a loss of cash, through
subscription to the government's Panama canal loan, through which the
surplus reserve began to crumble away at an amazingly rapid rate.
In the first week of December, a decrease of $7,000,000 brought this
surplus down to $20,171,000 ; it was manifest that, if the ensuing weeks
should witness a decrease at any such rate, the surplus, so far from main-
taining a high record, would disappear altogether before the end of 1908.
It was not likely that this would be allowed to happen; and, as a matter
of fact, it did not happen. But the only means of preventing it was to
allow the rate for money to advance, and thus to attract other lenders
into the New York market. The rate for call money on the Stock Ex-
change, which had been 2 per cent, or thereabouts at election time, rose
in the middle of December to 4 per cent., and this advance had a double
eflfect. It did attract into the Wall Street market a mass of lending
institutions, home and foreign, who would not put their money out- at
2 per cent., but were attracted by the higher rate, and in the third week
of December, the statement of the New York Associated Banks showed
the amazing reduction in loans of $48,000,000 for the week — something
r
22 THE FORUM
wholly unexampled in the history of New York banking. This occurred
through the virtual transfer of loans to trust companies and out-of-town
banks, and it averted a deficit in reserves; though, even with this heavy
transfer of liabilities, the surplus reserve fell to $10,000,000, which was
not far from the average of that date. But the second eflfect of the 4
per cent, money rate was to remove the strongest argument which had
prevailed in the stock speculation — ^namely, that when money coidd be
borrowed at 1 per cent, and invested in stocks paying 4, 5 or 6 per cent,
dividends, there was a sure chance of profit on the difference. This chance
now had disappeared, not only by the rise in money rates themselves to 4
per cent., but because prices of stocks were already on so high a leyel, that
the net yield in dividends to the purchaser was very greatly reduced, and
in many cases was less than the price which he must pay for money. The
inevitable result was a break of great severity on the Stock Exchange,
which by Christmas week had cancelled the greater part of the ex-
traordinary rise achieved since election day. It was computed, on the
basis of those prices of December 21st, that since election day Union
Pacific stock had advanced lOf points and declined lOf, that United
States Steel common had gone up lOf and down 7^ ; Beading up lOJ and
down 7f, Amalgamated Copper up 8 and down 12f ; Chicago, Milwaukee
and St. Paul up 9J and down 9 ; Northern Pacific up llf and down 9^. It
remains of course to see what changes in prices hereafter will affect such
comparisons. But, in the meantime, it is not unfair to say that this
rise and relapse of speculative stocks measures, not unreasonably, the rela-
tive part which fiction and fact have played in the popular notion of the
'^trade boom" since election.
Alexander D. Noyes.
QUATBAIN
BY MURIBL RIOE
I called you often when there was no need.
Only to speak to you and hear your name;
And it has grown so very much the same, —
My voice in calling, — ^you no longer heed.
Muriel Bice.
THE DRAMA
MELODBAMAS AND FAECES
BY CLAYTON HAMILTON
Tbagedy and melodrama are alike in this, — that each exhibits a set of
characters struggling vainly to avert a predetermined doom ; but in this
essential point they differ, — that whereas the characters
in melodrama are drifted to disaster in spite of them-
MelodrLm^ selves, the characters in tragedy go down to destruction
because of themselves. In tragedy the characters de-
termine and control the plot; in melodrama the plot
determines and controls the characters. The writer of melodrama in-
itially imagines a stirring train of incidents, interesting and exciting in
themselves, and afterward invents such characters as will readily accept
the destiny that he has foreordained for them. The writer of tragedy,
on the other hand, initially imagines certain characters inherently pre-
destined to destruction because of what they are, and afterward invents
such incidents as will reasonably result from what is wrong within them.
It must be recognized at once that each of these is a legitimate method
for planning a serious play, and that by following either the one or the other,
it is possible to make a truthful representation of life. For the ruinous
events of life itself divide themselves into two classes, — ^the melodramatic
and the tragic, — ^according as the element of chance or the element of char-
acter shows the upper hand in them. For example, the assajBsination of
William McKinley was melodramatic, because nothing in that gracious
President's career pointed forward logically to its disastrous close. But,
on the other hand, the assassination of Stanford White was tragic, be-
cause the strength of that great artist was so alloyed with weakness that
his frailties pointed forward logically to some sort of retributive disaster.
It woidd be melodramatic for a man to slip by accident into the Whirl-
pool Bapids and be drowned ; but the drowning of Captain Webb in that
tossing torrent was tragic, because his ambition for pre-eminence as a
swimmer bore evermore within itself the latent possibility of his failing
in an uttermost stupendous effort.
As Stevenson has said, in his Gossip on Romance, 'T?he pleasure that
we take in life is of two sorts — ^the active and the passive. Now we are
conscious of a great command over our destiny; anon we are lifted up by
r
y
24 THE FORUM
circmnstaiice^ as by a breaking wave^ and dashed we know not how into
the future." A good deal of what happens to us is brought upon us by
the fact of what we are; the rest is drifted to us, uninvited, undeserved,
upon the tides of chance. When disasters overwhelm us, the fault is
sometimes in ourselves, but at other times is merely in our stars. Be-
cause so much of life is casual rather than causal, the theatre (whose pur-
pose is to represent life truly) must always rely on melodrama as the
most natural and eflfective type of art for exhibiting some of its most
interesting phases. There is therefore no logical reason whatsoever that
melodrama shoidd be held in disrepute, even by the most fastidious of
critics.
But, on the other hand, it is evident that tragedy is inherently a higher
lype of art. The melodramatist exhibits merely what may happen; the
tragedist exhibits what must happen. All that we ask of the author of
melodrama is a momentary plausibility. Provided that his plot be not
impossible, no limits are imposed on his invention of mere incident : even
his characters will not give him pause, since they themselves have been
fashioned to fit the action. But of the author of tragedy we demand an
unquestionable inevitability: nothing may happen in his play which is
not a logical result of the nature of his characters. Of the melodramatist
we require merely the negative virtue that he shall not lie: of the
tragedist we require the positive virtue that he shall reveal some phase
of the absolute, eternal Truth.
The vast difference between merely saying something that is true and
really saying something that gives a glimpse of the august and all-con-
trolling Truth may be suggested by a verbal illustration. Suppose that
upon an evening which at sunset has been threatened with a storm, I ob-
serve the sky at midnight to be cloudless, and say, '*The stars are shining
still." Assuredly I shall be telling something that is true; but I shall
not be giving in any way a revelation of the absolute. Consider now the
aspect of this very same remark, as it occurs in the fourth act of John
Webster's tragedy. The Duchess of Malfi, The Duchess, overwhelmed
with despair, is talking to Bosola:
Duchess. I'll go pray; —
Ko, m go curse:
Bosola. O, fie!
Duchess. I could curse the stars.
Bosola, 0, fearful.
Duchess. And those three smiling seasons of the year
Into a Russian winter : nay, the world
To its first chaos.
Bosola. Look you, the stars shine still.
THE DRAMA 25
This brief sentence, which in the former instance was comparatively
meaningless, here suddenly flashes on the awed imagination a vista of
irrevocable law. •
A similar difference exists between the august Truth of tragedy and
the less revelatory truthfulness of melodrama. To understand and to
expound the laws of life is a loftier task than merely to avoid misrepre-
senting them. For this reason, though melodrama has always abounded,
true tragedy has always been extremely rare. Nearly all the tragic plays
in the history of the theatre have descended at certain moments into melo-
drama. Shakespeare's final version of Hamlet stands nearly on the high-
est level; but here and there it still exhibits traces of that pre-existent
melodrama, of the school of Thomas Kyd from which it was derived.
Sophocles is truly tragic, because he affords a revelation of the absolute ;
but Euripides is for the most part melodramatic, because he contents
himself with imagining and projecting the merely possible. In our own
age, Ibsen is the only author who, consistently, from play to play, com-
mands catastrophes which are not only plausible but unavoidable. It is
not strange, however, that the entire history of the drama should disclose
very few masters of the tragic; for to envisage the inevitable is to look
within the very mind of God.
If we turn our attention to the merry-mooded drama, we shall discern
a similar distinction between comedy and farce. A comedy is a humor-
ous play in which the actors dominate the action; a
farce is a humorous play in which the action dominates
Comedy and ^^^^ actors. Pure comedy is the rarest of all types of
^^^ drama; because characters strong enough to determine
and control a humorous plot almost always insist on
fighting out their struggle to a serious issue, and thereby lift the action
above the comic level. On the other hand, unless the characters thus
stiffen in their purposes, they usually allow the play to lapse to farce.
Pure nomedies, however, have now and then been fashioned, without ad-
mixture cither of farce or of serious drama; and of these Le Misanthrope
of Moli^re may be taken as a standard example. The work of the same
master also affords many examples of pure farce, which never rises into
comedy, — ^for instance, Le Mededn Malgre Lui. Shakespeare nearly al-
ways associated the two types within the compass of a single humorous
play, using comedy for his major plot and farce for his subsidiary inci-
dents. Farce is decidedly the most irresponsible of all the types of drama.
The plot exists for its own sake, and the dramatist need fulfil only two
requirements in devising it : — ^first, he must be funny, and second, he must
r
26 THE FORUM
persuade his audience to accept his situations for the moment at least
while they are being enacted. Beyond this latter requisite, he suffers no
subservience to plausibility. Since he needs to be believed only for the
moment, he is not obliged to limit himself to possibilities. But to com-
pose a true comedy is a very serious task; for in comedy the action must
be not only possible and plausible, but must be a necessary result of the
nature of the characters. This is the reason why The School for Scandal
is a greater accomplishment than The Rivals, though the latter play is
fully as funny as the fonner. The one is comedy, and the other merely
farce.
The most interesting event of the last month in the theatres of New
York was the immediate and absolute failure of The Winterfeast, by
Mr. Charles Eann Kennedy, the gifted author of The
Servant in the House. A failure by a dramatist who
"^.*** . „ bas proved himself to be important is worthy of studious
and carefid criticism. Many reasons have already been
adduced by the newspaper reviewers to explain why this
earnest and ambitious drama failed to please the public. The action
passed in Iceland in the year 1020 a.d. ; and it has been suggested that the
period and the place were too remote to awaken the lethargic imagina-
tion of the many. The story was intricate and difficult to follow, and the
piece was very much too long. It was conceived and projected with un-
wavering unity of mood; and since the mood was sombre and harrowing,
the utter lack of relief palled upon the audience. Although only seven
actors were needed to present the play, no less than twelve people suffered
violent deaths before the catastrophe was completed. Besides a rather
inefficient servant, only two characters were left alive at the close; and
these two were the only people in the story who had done anything posi-
tive to deserve disaster. The action was frequently delayed by long and
literary speeches, some of which were soliloquies delivered to the circum-
jacent air. But all of these accumulated dicta do not explain the failure
of the play, because such incidental handicaps as these were discounted
by the unusual merits of the performance. The piece was handsomely
set, and (except for an occasional awkwardness of stage-direction) well
produced; and the acting of the three leading performers was so unusu-
ally able and effective as to make up for a multitude of such minor de-
merits in the play as those which we have just enumerated.
No; we must look more deeply than this to discern what was irremedi-
ably wrong with The Winterfeast. I think that the true explanation of
the matter lies in an evident inconsistency between the author^s intention
THE DRAMA 27
and his actual accomplishment. It is quite evident from the tenor and
the tone of the drama that he intended to make a tragedy; and it is just
as evident, upon studious consideration, that he succeeded only in making
a melodrama. To understand this centrally important point, we must
examine the subject and investigate the plotting of the play.
Mr. Kenned/s purpose was to exhibit the ruinous effects of a lie told
by one man to the detriment of another with the intention of benefiting
some one else — a single lie, which, like a bit of snow loosened on a moun-
tain summit, might gather weight and impetus as it descended, until it
became an avalanche sweeping everything before it to destruction. This
is a very fascinating subject; but it is an extremely difficidt one to handle
tragically, instead of melodramatically. In fact, a thorough contempla-
tion of the theme will show that there is only one way in which it may
be given a truly tragic treatment. That one way is by exhibiting a dis-
integration of character within the man who told the lie, produced by his
own haunting consciousness of wrong committed — ^a disintegration so
complete as to drag also to destruction the innocent people whose des-
tinies are intertwined with his by filaments of falsehood spun out of his
original mistaken purpose. With such a treatment of the theme, the
action might be made at every point inevitable, and ruin might be
wrought directly from defect of character, without the intervention of
accidental circumstance. Here, obviously, was an opportunity to put in
practice that maxim of Mr. Meredith's in Modem Love:
In tragic life, God wot,
Ko villain need be ! Passions spin the plot :
We are betrayed by what is false within.
But instead of choosing this truly tragic rendering of the subject, and
showing his characters betrayed by what was false within them, Mr. Ken-
nedy adopted the melodramatic method of inventing a villain to mo-
tivate the plot from the outside. The author betrayed his characters by
the blind accidents of chance; he showed them at all points dominated
by his plot; and thereby he lost the lofty Truth of tragedy inherent in
his theme.
Since The Winterfeast is published and is thereby made available for
study,^ a very brief summary of the story will be suiBScient for the pur-
pose of the present criticism. Thorkel, a viking, has a son, Valbrand,
who is a skald, and a foster-son, B jom, who is a warrior. Both the young
men love Herdisa. She prefers Bjom, but Thorkel wishes her to marry
^The Winterfeast. By Charles Rann Kennedy. New York and Ijondon:
Harper and Brothers.
28 THE FORUM
Valbrand. Therefore he fai'es forth overseas to Vineland, taking Bjom
with him and leaving Valbrand at home. Before the expedition starts,
Herdisa, unasked, clearly indicates her love for Bjom. Bjom is by acci-
dent left behind in Vineland, but sends back a message of love to Herdisa.
Thorkel lies about this message, sayrug that Bjom sent Herdisa as a taunt
the single word, "Unasked.^' Herdisa, stung by this, immediately mar-
ries Valbrand. By him she has a daughter, Swanhild; but she continues
to love Bjom, whom she supposes to be dead. Twenty years later Bjorn
returns to Iceland with a son, Olaf, who has been bom to him in Vine-
land. His return and Thorkd's old deception are discovered by Priest
Ufeig, who for many years has been at feud with Thorkel, for some
reason which the author never reveals, Ufeig, possessed of his enemy's
guilty secret, proceeds to undermine him by the usual methods of black-
mail. He secures a foraial remission of the open enmity between them,
and then tries to force a marriage between Swanhild and his son, Helgi.
The aged Thorkel prevents this by killing the young Helgi; and, in-
satiate of carnage, slays also a full half dozen other sons of Ufeig.
Bjom, after his return home, is left alone with Herdisa. Naturally
he wonders why she ever married Valbrand. She tells him that she did
so because of that bitter word of his, ^TJnasked.'^ Thus confronted with
the old lie, Bjom, for some inexplicable reason, does not supplant it with
the simple truth. Instead, he picks a querulous quarrel with Valbrand.
The two men go forth to fight; and one of them slays the other. A thrall,
named Odd, is present at their combat; but though the survivor speaks
several sentences to him. Odd remains inexplicably ignorant as to which
killed which. By chance he brings back a sword which indicates that
Valbrand has been slain by Bjom.
Olaf happens in, and falls in love with Swanhild at first sight. Her-
disa makes him swear to kill the supposed slayer of Swanhild's father.
Olaf, deeming from the accidental sword, that he has sworn to kill his
own father, Bjom, kills himself instead. His suicide leads to Swanhild's.
Valbrand returns, a slayer but not slain. Discovering his daughter's fate,
he madly mshes forth to kill himself. Herdisa dies of shock at this
accumulation of arbitrary deaths. The villain, Ufeig, remains unscathed,
except for the loss of his small army of sons at one fell swoop. The only
other person (barring Odd) who remains unpunished, is the guilty source
of all the trouble, Thorkel. Never during the course of the action has
he exhibited any truly tragic compunctions of conscience. Only at the
very end of the play does he feel ready to confess his ancient fault; and
by that time, unfortunately, nobody is left alive to listen to his confession.
This summary, which I think is not unfair, must make it clearly
THE DRAMA 29
evident that the characters of The Winterfeast are controlled at all points
by the fortuitous falling out of circumstance. Every detail of the catas-
trophe is the result of accident. Olaf kills himself, not because of any
inherent necessity, but. merely because a stupid thrall has brought back
misleading tidings of a mortal combat. Since Olaf's death conditions
Swanhild's, and her death conditions Yalbrand^s, all three deaths are
due to chance. Also it must have been by some blind accident that Val-
brand slew Bjom, since the latter was admittedly the better warrior. The
author offers no explanation of ThorkePs miraculous prowess in killing
in a single combat seven men, all younger and stronger than himseli
Herdisa, apparently, dies merely by contagion, because death is in the
air. Surely, surely, the catastrophe of this play oversteps even the im-
modesty of melodrama; and of the inevitable doom of tragedy it offers
not a trace.
At one all-important point in the second act, the play breaks entirely
to pieces. When Herdisa hurls at Bjorn that rankling word, 'TJnasked,"
we expect the simple-natured warrior to reply, 'TE never said that word;
old Thorkel lied; the message that I sent to you was this." Assuredly
some statement of this sort must have been made by Bjorn at that excited
moment. But Mr. Kennedy tells us that, instead, the warrior remained
silent a Jong time, and then remarked philosophically: — "So: that one
word hath broken both our lives." If Bjorn had not thus imtruthfully
evaded telling the truth at that moment, the entire subsequent fabric of
Mr. Kennedy^s melodrama would have been rendered unimaginable. The
avalanche is therefore launched by an evasion which belies an inherent
necessity of character.
In tiie last act, Valbrand sits silent within an ingle-seat, in full view
of the audience, while Herdisa and Swanhild exchange eighteen speeches,
arguing whether or not he has been slain and cast into a fiord. During
this protracted argument, it does not occur to Valbrand to interpose a
word to stop the superfluity of drear contention. Previous to this, Her-
disa has wasted a great deal of eloquence in a threnody over Valbrand,
whom the audience already suspect to be alive. Throughout the writing
of the dialogue, Mr. Kennedy evinces a mania for making his characters,
say very simple things elaborately, merely in order that their meaning
may be misunderstood by those to whom they are talking. Melodrama
may be made out of misunderstandings and evasions; but surely tragedy
should be built out of simple and terrible revelations.
These details, doubtless, are enough to indicate that The Winterfeast
is not a tragedy, and that even when considered as a melodrama it does
not meet successfully the test of plausibility. The financial failure of
r
30 THE FORUM
the play was due to its defects as a work of art. The great uncritical pub-
lic was in this case right, as it almost always is. Yet the play has con-
siderable literary merit, and is well wori;h reading. It is written in a
sori; of William Morris prose, eloquent with connotative archaism. It re-
veals a great deal of poetic feeling, — ^a strong sweep and a frequent
grandeur of emotion. And for the reader it is rendered furthermore
worth while by the potency of the author's personality, — ^his earnestness,
his vigor, his enthusiasm, his sinceriiy, — qualities too great to be dimmed
even by the failure of a lofty purpose.
The Patriot, by Mr. J. Hartley Manners and Mr. William Collier, is
frankly a farce; and the plot which dominates its mirth-provoking cari-
catures is comfortably conventional. The story may be
summarized in short-hand, as follows: — Act 7. The
"The Patriot" hero is in hard luck. A sudden legacy is left him by
an unsuspected uncle. Curtain. Act II. A condition
of the legacy is that the hero shall marry a certain girl
within a certain time. The girl and he are incompatible. The hero, to
escape the girl, discards the legacy. Curtain. Act III, The hero re-
turns to his former life, and marries a girl who has been a factor in it.
Providence endows him with good luck. Curtain.
Obviously this short-hand summary would fit fully a dozen other
farces of recent seasons just as well as it fits The Patriot But that is
nothing against the present piece; for in The Patriot the familiar formula
is used as a basis for dramatizing the amusing personality of Mr. Collier,
and individual personality is always new. The farce is vivified with
pleasant playfulness and clever foolery, and is genuinely entertaining in
detail.
In The Stronger Sex, by Mr. John Valentine, an impoverished yoimg
English nobleman marries a spirited American heiress. Immediately
after the wedding ceremony, the heroine overhears a
conversation between her husband and a former love of
c onger ^^^ which reveals that he has married her merely for
her money. She resolves to educate him up to worthi-
ness. Befusing conjugal relations with him, she pays
him a fixed allowance, and oversees his expenditures in detail. There is
a strong struggle between them for dominance over their household, and
the woman wins. As a result of the struggle the man grows worthy, and
the two develop a genuine affection for each other, which results in a
real marriage of love between them.
THE DRAMA 31
The second act of this play, which exhibits the brunt of the struggle
between the husband and the wife, is genuinely interesting. The act
is plotted with considerable theatric skill, and the material is so adapted
as to make both a comic and a serious appeal. The third act is pleasant
enough, though the author falsely emphasizes much material that is of
minor importance. But the whole play is very nearly spoiled by the
first ac^ which aflfords only a dull and tedious exposition of the story.
The eavesdropping scene is arbitrarily theatrical. People who become
really characters later in the play are merely caricatures in the initial
act. Evidently Mr. Valentine did not secure control of his material until
his material secured control of him.
Mr. Clyde Fitch has made a very ludicrous and entertaining farce in
his adaptation from the German of Alexander Engel and Julius Horst,
entitled The Blue Mouse. A young man, who is secre-
tary to a railroad president, desires to be advanced to a
« * „"* more lucrative position. He knows that the president
may be easily cajoled by pretty women of a safely re-
spectable sort. Therefore he hires a clever chorus lady
to pass herself off as his wife, and introduces her, in this capacity, to the
president. Since both the president and the secretary are married, there
is plenty of opportunity for complex misunderstandings between the
hired wife and the actual ones. The plot affords an amusing succession
of coimter-crosses; the machinery is very cleverly managed; and the
merry spirit of the entertainment is enhanced by slight suggestions now
and then of harmless naughtiness.
Mary Jane's Pa, by Edith Ellis, rises above the level of mere farce,
and deserves consideration as a comedy. It sets forth an interesting
struggle between the humorous charm of vagabondia,
<«]yli^ made incarnate in a man, and the striving steadfast
Jane's practicality of a woman. Portia Perkins is a successful
Pa" printer and editor in a tiny Indiana town. She has two
young daughters and is presumably a widow, but nobody
knows anything about her husband. The fact is that he has wandered
away and disappeared many years before. Unexpectedly he reappears,
and makes himself known to his wife. He has lived in many lands, and
looked with humor on the habitable world, and returns with the ripe
mind of the contemplative philosopher; but he is still a skulker, despite
his literary graces, and his practical wife will take him back into her
house only on the terms of a hired man. He amusedly consents, and
r
32 THE FORUM
becomes housekeeper and cook. Scandal is awakened in the town by the
presence in Portia Perkins's house of a man supposedly a stranger; but
after many amusing struggles the two acknowledge to the world that
they are man and wife. The husband, presumably, is cured of vaga-
bondage, and there is a prospect of happy home life ever after.
This unusually interesting story is very pleasantly rendered by Miss
Ellis. The play is a little unsteady in structure, and seems to have been
too much rewritten and revised. The minor parts are caricatured, and
occasionally mar the reality of the general impression; but the hero is a
genuine character. The piece conveys at all points the charm of a sincere
and worthy purpose. The dialogue is lacking in literary distinction; but
the writing is simple and sincere, and therefore adequate. Miss Ellis is
to be congratulated on having created a real and interesting character,
and having told a human story with honesty and earnestness.
Mr. William Gillette's latest play, which, with the title of That Little
Affair at the Boyds', was first produced last spring in Washington, and
has since been seen in Chicago, was recently shown, witli
the new title of Ticey, at a special matinte performance
"Ticey" in New York. It proved to be a commingling of farce
and comedy dnd melodrama, set forth with Mr. Gillette's
accustomed theatric skill. The theme of the piece is the
same as that of She Stoops to Conquer; and this latest rendering of the
old, familiar material indicates anew its value for the purposes of enter-
tainment. The hero is a young man who writes plays which are too
elaborately literary for production, and who will not accept advice from
anybody else. The heroine is a popular actress, whom he loves in secret,
and who secretly loves hiuL The actress makes-up as a common drudge,
and secures employment as a serving-nwiid in the playwright's household.
Without allowing him to grow aware of what she is effecting, she teaches
him the necessity of simple reality in his dialogue and in the conduct
of his scenes. As a result, the playwright composes a play which is ac-
cepted and produced, with the actress performing the leading part. Not
knowing that he owes his success to her, he wooes and wins her; and as
the curtain falls, she remarks that some day she may tell him something.
This pleasing story is rendered with considerable humor and a touch
of sympathetic sentiment. The first act is too processional in its sequent
exposition of material ; but in the second and third acts, the commingled
sentiment and fun stiffen into pleasantly exciting melodrama. The last
act, on the other hand, declines in interest because it is unduly intricate.
Clayton Hamilton.
ARAMINTA'
BY J. 0. SNAITH
CHAPTER VII
A THROWBACK
Andover entered bearing a small parcel with a certain ostentation.
"Caroline," said he, "as I was coming out of Truefitt's I remembered
that for the first time for forty years I had forgotten to give you a
present on your birthday. Last year I gave you a Bible. This year I
have bought you this."
He cut the string of the parcel and handed the present to Caroline
Crewkerne.
With a grim but not ungraceful inclination of the second best
turban the recipient began to relieve the present of its numerous trap-
pings. A small but expensive hand glass was presently revealed.
"Thank you, Andover," said the old lady. "A very charming
present."
"I hope it pleases you, my dear Caroline," said Andover with quite
the bel air. "You have so long defied time that I felt it to be an interest-
ing memento of his impotence."
"Thank you, Andover," said the redoubtable Caroline. "It is very
kind to remember an old woman."
"A woman is as old as she looks," said Andover, "as Byron says."
^^yron?" said the old lady.
"I ascribe every truism to Byron," said Andover. "It makes it sound
important and it is perfectly safe. Everybody pretends to have read
Byron yet nobody has."
^TBurden has read him, I believe," said the old lady.
Miss Burden sighed romantically.
Lord Andover shook his finger at Miss Burden with considerable
solemniiy.
"No boy under the age of twenty should be permitted to smoke
cigarettes," said he. "And no woman under forty should be permitted
to read Byron."
Caroline Crewkerne snorted.
'TBy the way," said Andover, "now I am here I must pay homage to
my duchess."
He took a half turn in the direction of the sofa. Miss Perry was
^Copyright, 1908, by Moffat, Ta/rd & Company.
r
34 ^I^HE FOBUM
still seated upon it in her pensive attitude. She was still gazing into
vacancy, and she was somewhat in the shadow.
Immediately to the left of Miss Perry, intervening between her and
Aunt Caroline, was the object that claimed for the moment the whole
of Andover's attention. Bightly so, indeed, for it was nothing less than
one of the world's masterpieces. It was a full length portrait in a
massive gilt frame; a truly regal canvas in the full meridian splendor
of English art. Under the pictxLre in bold letters was the magic legend :
"Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough."
Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, was a young girl in her teens, in an
inordinately floppy hat of the period. Her countenance, ineffably simple,
was a glamour of pink and white; her lips were slightly parted; the
wonderful blue eyes were gazing into vacancy; and one finger was un-
mistakably in her mouth.
Andover, having fixed his glass with some elaboration, slowly backed
a few paces, and gave expression to the adoration he always affected in
the presence of this noble work.
In silence he stood to absorb the poetry, the innocence, the appeal
of youth. He sighed profoundly.
"Caroline,'^ he said, "I would give a whole row of Georgiana Devon-
shires for this. In my judgment it has never been equalled."
"Grandmamma Dorset wears well," said Caroline with a grim
chuckle.
"It ought to be called ^Simpliciiy,* " said Andover. "It ought to
be called ^Innocence.' Upon my word of honor, Caroline, I always
feel when I look at the divine Araminta that I want to shed tears."
Caroline Crewkeme snorted.
"Andover," said she, "I have noticed that when a man begins life as
a cynic he invariably ends as a sentimentalist."
"Caroline," said her old friend, sighing deeply, "you are a pagan.
You have no soul."
'TBurden has a soul," said the contemptuous Caroline. "In my
opinion she would be better without it."
"How ironical it is," said Andover, "that you who distrust art so
profoundly should have such a masterpiece in your drawing-room."
"I am given to understand that a committee will buy it for the
nation one of these days," said Caroline indifferently.
"Caroline," said Andover, "you promised years ago that if the time
ever came when money could buy Araminta she should be purchased
for the Andover Collection."
"Well the time has not come yet."
ARAMTNTA 36
'^When it does come I shall hold you to your promise/*
While Andover continued his examination of Qainsborough's master-
piece, Caroline Crewkeme said to her gentlewoman, ^TBurden, get my
spectacles/'
Andover turned away from the picture at last. Naturally enough
his gaze alighted on the sofa. Sitting in the centre thereof was the
wonderful Miss Perry. She was still at Slocum Magna. She had got
to her third slice of bread and jam. Polly was pouring out a second
sensible cup. Dearest papa had just made one of his jokes. Charley
and Milly were conducting an argument as to who was entitled to the
cake with the currants in it. Miss Perry's blue eyes were unmistakably
moist; and although she was not actually sucking her finger there could
be no doubt that at any moment she might begin to do so. And the
inverted vegetable basket that crowned her seemed to flop more than
ever.
It was no wonder that Andover gave a little exclamation. A lover
of beauty in all its manifestations, he had an eye for nature as well
as for art. And here, side by side with Gainsborough's masterpiece,
making due allowance for a number of trifling details which did not
in the least affect the subject, was an almost exact replica of that im-
mortal work. Andover, in spite of his foibles, had the seeing eye. Not-
withstanding Miss Perry's preposterous clothes, one thing was clear.
Here was Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, in the flesh.
He swung round to the redoubtable Caroline with the glass leaping
out of his eye.
"Caroline,*' he cried, ''a throwback I"
That old woman gazed through her spectacles at the occupant of the
sofa with concentrated grimness. Miss Perry still at Slocum Magna
was seriously debating whether a fourth slice of bread and jam was
within the range of practical politics.
^'Andover," said Caroline coolly, "I believe you are right."
Surprise and enthusiasm began to work great havoc with that noble-
man.
'TTpon my word," said he, "it is the most wonderful thing I have
ever seen in my life. A pretty trick of old Mother Nature's."
'TDon't be a coxcomb, Andover," said Caroline wamingly.
"A perfect throwback," said that amateur.
Once more his gaze was brought to bear on the distracting occupant
of the sofa whose hair was the color of daffodils, and whose eyes re-
minded him of the sky of Italy. He approached her with his most ex-
quisite air.
r
36 THE FORUM
"I have no need to ask," said he, "whether the famous duchess is
your kinswoman."
Miss Perry returned from Slocum Magna with a little start. She
removed her finger from her lip, yet her thoughts were not of famous
duchesses.
In the meantime the redoubtable Caroline said nothing. All the
same she was watching everything with those relentless eyes of
hers.
Miss Perry exhibited no surprise and no embarrassment at being
summoned so peremptorily from Slocum Magna by such a distinguished
looking gentleman. Perhaps her wonderful blue eyes opened a little
wider, and she may or she may not have hoisted a little color, but it
really seemed as though her thoughts were more concerned with bread
and jam than with Lord Andover.
^TVill you pardon an old worshipper of your famous ancestress if
he asks your name?" said he. "I hope and trust it is a legitimate
curiosity."
Miss Featherbrain made an eflEort to cease wool-gathering. She
smiled with a friendliness that would have disarmed a sat3rr.
^Ttfy name is Araminta," she drawled in her hopelessly ludicrous
manner, *T)ut they call me Goose because I am rather a Sil-lay."
Andover gave a chuckle of sheer human pleasure. He was to be
pardoned for feeling that a new delight had been offered to an existence
which had long exhausted every aesthetic form of joy.
"Your name is Araminta," he repeated by a kind of hypnotic proc-
ess, ^T)ut they call you Goose because you are rather a Silly."
Miss Perry rewarded Lord Andover with an indulgent beam. Her
frank smile assured him that he had had the good fortune to interpret
her correctly. It was not easy for that connoisseur to withdraw his
enchanted gaze. However, at last he contrived to do so. He turned
to his old friend.
"Caroline," said he, "the fairies have fulfilled my wish. I have
always wanted to meet a Gainsborough in the flesh and to hear her
speak. And now I have done so, I know why Gainsborough painted 'em."
"Faugh," said the old lady vigorously, "sentimentality is the national
bane."
"Ifo, Caroline," said Andover sadly, "you've no soul. Why don't
you present me?"
'Ttfy niece. Miss Perry," said Caroline. ^Tjord Andover, my old
friend."
"Oh, how do you do," said Miss Perry, shootmg forth her hand in
ARAMINTA 37
her own private and particular manner to Aunt Caroline's old friend,
"I hope you are quite well."
The manner in which Andover enclosed the ample paw of Miss
Perry, which nevertheless was long and slender, in his own delicately
manicured fingers, was almost epic.
'Ttfiss Perry," said he, '*this is a great moment in my life."
'TDon't be a coxcomb, Andover," said Caroline Crewkerne with great
energy. No one made fuller use than that old woman of the privilege
accorded to age of being as rude as it pleases. But it was so necessary
that the wearer of the vegetable basket should not get notions under
it before she had been in Hill Street an hour.
'^y dear Miss Perry," said Andover with the magniloquent air
with which he occasionally asked a question in the Hereditary Chamber,
''are you acquainted with the vast metropolis?"
"Oh, no," said Miss Perry, ''I have always lived at Slocum Magna."
'TSeally," said Andover with an insincere surprise. 'TBy the way,
where is Slocum Magna?"
Doubtless owing to the fact that she was a duke's granddaughter.
Miss Perry had excellent if somewhat rustic breeding. Brains were
not her strong point, but she had been long enough in London to
anticipate almost instinctively Lord Andover's question. Moreover, her
astonishment at the ignorance of London people was softened by the
friendly indulgence she extended to everybody on the slightest pretext.
''Slocum Magna," said Miss Perry without the least appearance of
didacticism, "is the next village to Widdiford. They haven't quite got
the railway at Widdiford yet, but it is only three miles away."
The absence of the railway at Widdiford appeared to decide Andover
upon his course of action. With the air of a man whose mind is quite
made up, he addressed Miss Perry.
"As an old friend of your accomplished aunt's," said he, "of many
years' standing, I feel that during your sojourn in the vast metropolis
it is only wise and right that I should act in loco parentis."
Now although Miss Perry's papa was a very good classic, he had
been unable to communicate his excellence in the dead languages to his
second daughter. Miss Perry made no secret of the fact that she would
like a little more enlightennient.
"A sort of combination, you know," said Andover lucidly, "of a
courier and a cicerone and a sincere well wisher. One feels sure it will
help you at first to have some one to guide you through the traflSc."
"Burden is quite competent to see that she doesn't get run over,"
said the accomplished aunt of Miss Perry.
r
38 THE FORUM
"Also, my dear Miss Perry/* said Andover mellifluously, "you may
require a little advice occasionally from a man of the world. The vast
metropolis is full of pitfalls for your sex"
^^e have poachers at Slocum Magna/' said Miss' Perry.
"The metropolis is diflEerent/' said Andover. "I regret to say it
harbors every known form of wickedness.'*
Miss Perry's eyes opened so wide that they seemed to magnetize
Lord Andover.
"Are there r-r-robbers ?"
"A great number/' said Andover. 'They lurk in every street. If
you have never been to London before you will certainly need advice
and protection."
'T^at fun !" said Miss Perry. "I shall write to tell MufiBn."
'TVoidd it be an unpardonable curiosity if one inquired who is Muf-
fin?"
"My sister, don't you know," drawled Miss Perry. "Her name is
Elizabeth, really. But we call her Mufiin because she is rather a Baga-
muffin."
'Tour family appears to be a singularly interesting one," said
Andover.
"Papa says we are none of us very bright/' said Miss Perry with
her ludicrous drawl, "but we are all of us very healthy, except Doggo,
who has had the mange twice."
Andover found it necessary to repeat the dictum of Miss Perry's
papa. He then sat down beside her in a truly paternal manner.
"Tell me about your papa," said he musically. "I am immensely
interested in him. One feels one ought to have so many things in
common with such a papa as yours."
"Papa is just a sweet " began Miss Perry with a frank appear-
ance of pleasure. But she got no farther.
Aunt Caroline uplifted an immutable finger.
"Araminta," said she, "it is time you went up to dress. Burden,
take the creature to her room."
Miss Perry rose at once with a docility that was charming. She
bestowed her most frankly indulgent smile upon Andover and quitted
the drawing-room in Miss Burden's custody.
Andover screwed his glass into his astonished eye to gaze after
her magnificence.
"A goddess," said he. "Juno. A great work of nature."
He prepared to take his leave.
"I am afraid, Caroline," said he, "your memory begins to fail a little."
ARAMTNTA 39
**Bubbish/^ said Caroline robustly.
*T)o you know how long it is since you asked me to dine with you?**
said Andover.
^Tou refused three times running/* said Caroline truculently. "I
am determined that no human being shall refuse a fourth.**
*^ell you know,** said Andover coolly, "you were just a little diffi-
cult the last twice I dined with you, and the wine was abominable. And
with all that excellent claret that you have, and that *63 port, and that
really priceless madeira — ^really, Caroline, considering what your cellar
can do if it chooses, the wine was unpardonable. Still I am in no
sense a vindictive man. 1*11 dine with you this evening.**
'Thank you, Andover,'* said Caroline dryly. "Eight o'clock.**
*^ight o'clock,** said Andover.
My lord took his leave with a jauntiness that recalled the vanished
era of his youth.
Two hours later the noble earl was back in Hill Street. He looked
particularly soigne in the choicest of evening clothes. They fitted his
corsetted form to perfection.
"Where is the fair Miss Araminta?" said he, giving his arm to his
hostess.
'*My niece is dining upstairs this evening,** said Caroliue Crewkcme.
Profoundly distrusting the appearance of the sherry and the claret,
Andover made a modest demand for whiskey and soda. The fare was
scanty, but what there was of it was not ill cooked. Also Caroline was not
so tiresome as he had anticipated. Doubtless she was a little exhilarated
by the doings of the day. She was a very sharp-witted old woman.
Her shrewdness had already foreseen that the appearance of a highly
original niece in a somewhat moribund menage might bring renegades
back to Hill Street craving pardon. A glimpse of the immediate future
was afforded by the spectacle of a peculiarly spick and span Andover
seated between Miss Burden and herself.
The turn of events lent an old-time pungency to what had once
Tanked as the most malicious tongue in London.
"Upon my honor,** said Andover, who was enchanted, "my dear
Caroline, you are quite at your high water mark.**
Caroline valued that kind of compliment, and she acquiesced in it
grimly. Andover*s remark was quite sincere, and in order to attest
his bona fides he told a story that caused Miss Burden to spill the salt,
while only the intervention of a miracle averted a more signal disaster
to the claret.
Andover was duly rewarded. By the time they had got to the
40 THE FORUM
mahogany — Caroline Crewkeme was a stickler for old fashions — ^the
hostess said in an aside to Mr* Marchbanks, "The madeira and the '63
port wine/'
There can be little doubt that Andover was sustained throughout
this not specially exhilarating function by the hope of seeing the
peerless Miss Araminta in the drawing-room after dinner. In this,
however, he was disappointed. The tardy minutes passed, but Miss
Araminta did not appear. At last in desperation he was moved to
inquire :
^TVhere hides the reluctant fair?"
"Speak English, Andover,'' said Caroline.
"The adorable Miss Perry."
"The creature is in bed," said Caroline incisively. "It is a long
journey from Slocum Magna for a growing girl."
"Is one given to understand," said Andover, "that she made the
whole journey in a single day ?"
"In something under twenty-four hours, I believe," said Caroline.
"Express trains travel at such a remarkable rate in these days."
In the circumstances there was only one thing for Andover to do,
and this he did. He took his leave.
In the privacy of his hansom on the way to the Gayety Theatre
he ruminated exceedingly.
"That old woman," he mused, ^^as got all the trumps in her hand
again. A disagreeable old thing, but she does know how to play her
cards when she gets 'em."
The stall next to Andover's was in the occupation of no less a person
than George Bettcrton.
"Hallo, George," said Andover, "you in London."
^TTe-es," said George heavily. He did not seem to be altogether
clear upon the point. 'The War Office people are in their usual mess
with the MQitia.''
"But she is at Biarritz," said Andover.
"I have another one now," said George with brevity.
The noise and flamboyance of the ballet rendered further conversa-
tion undesirable. However, Andover took up the thread of discourse
at the end of the act.
"George," said he with considerable Solemnity, 'like myself, you have
grown old in the love of art."
George's assent was of the grufifest. Andover was going to be a bore
as usual.
'TTou remember that Gainsborough of Caroline Crewkeme's?"
ARAMINTA 41
'TTe-es/' said George. "I ofiEered her twenty thousand pounds for
it for the Cheadle Collection/'
'TSave you though>" said Andover. ^'Well, mind you don't renew
the offer. The refusal of it was promised to me in Crewkeme's life-
timc.'*
George Betterton began to gobble like a turkey. He looked as
though he wanted to call some one a liar.
'^ell, ifs too soon to quarrel over it/' said Andover harmoniously,
'Tjecause she doesn't intend to part with it to anybody at present."
"She's a perverse old woman/' said George, "and age don't improve
her."
"I mentioned her Gainsborough," said Andover, who was on the
rack of his own enthusiasm, 'T)ecause a very odd thing has happened.
The original of that picture has found her way into Hill Street."
'TVTiat, Grandmother Dorset!" said George contemptuously. ^TVTiy,
she's been in her grave a hundred years."
"An absolute throwback has turned up at Hill Street," said Andover
impressively. "If you want to see a living and breathing Gainsborough
walking and talking in twentieth century London call on Caroline
Crewkeme some wet afternoon."
George Betterton was not at all aesthetically minded. But like so
many of his countrymen, he always had a taste for "something fresh."
'T will," said he. And he spoke as if he meant it.
Then it was that Andover grew suddenly alive to the magnitude of
his indiscretion. Eeally, he had acted with consummate folly! He
had a clear start of all the field, yet through an unbridled natural
enthusiasm and a lifelong love of imparting information, he must needs
within an hour set one of the most dangerous men in England upon the
scent.
George Betterton had his limitations, but where the other sex was
concerned he was undoubtedly that, as Andover had reason to know. A
widower of nine and fifty, who had buried two wives without finding an
heir to his great estates, there was little doubt that he meant to come up
to the scratch for the third time, although, to be sure, of late his courses
had not seemed to lead in that direction. But Caroline Crewkeme,
who knew most things, seemed quite clear upon the point.
Yes, George Betterton's 'T wfll" had a sinister sound about it.
Andover himself was five and sixty and a bachelor, and in his heart
of hearts he had good reason to believe that he was not a marrying
man. He had long owed his primal duty to a great position in the
world, and to the scorn of his family and the amusement of his friends.
r
42 THE FORUM
he had not yet fulfilled it. He was too fond of adventures, he declared
romantically — a confession that a man old enough to be a grandfather
ought to be ashamed to make, declared the redoubtable Caroline with
her most fearsome snort. More than once, it is true, Andover had
thought he had seen the writing on the wall. But when his constitu-
tional apathy permitted him to examine it more closely he found it
had been written for some one else.
However, he had come away from Hill Street that evening in such
a state of suppressed enthusiasm, that in his present mood he was by
no means sure that he had not seen the writing again. It was certainly
odd that a man with his record and at his time of life should have
any such feeling. But there is no accounting for these things. There-
fore, he left the theatre with an idea taking root in him that he had
been guilty of an act of gross folly in blowing the trumpet so soon.
Why should he help to play Caroline's game? He should have left it
to her to summon this Eichmond to the field.
"Caroline will lead him a dance though," mused Andover on the
threshold of Ward's. "And I know how to handle the ribands better
than he does. He's got the mind of a dromedary, thank God !"
In the meantime the cause of these reflections was lying very forlorn
and very wideawake in the most imposing chamber in which she had
ever slept. The bed was large but cold ; the chintz hangings were im-
maculate but unsympathetic; the engravings of classical subjects and
of august relations whom she had never seen with which the walls
were hung, the austere magnificence of the furniture and the expensive
nature of the bric-a-brac made Miss Perry yearn exceedingly for the
cheerful simplicity of Slocum Magna.
Almost as far back as Miss Perry could remember it had been
given to her before attempting to repose to beat Muffin over the head
with a pillow. But in this solemn piece of upholstery, which apparently
had been designed for an empress, such friendly happenings as these
were out of the question.
However, she had Tobias with her. The wicker basket was on a
little laquered table beside her bed. And as she lay with a slow and
silent tear dropping at regular intervals out of her blue eyes, she had
her right hand resting firmly but affectionately on the lid of Tobias's
local habitation. That quaint animal, all unconscious of the honor
done to him, was wrapped in slumber with his ugly brown nose tucked
under his lean brown paws.
Thus was Miss Perry discovered at a quarter to eleven that evening
when Miss Burden entered to embrace her.
^
ARAMTNTA 43
"I want to go home to Slocum Magna/* said Miaa Perry with a
drawl and a sob whose united effect must have been supremely ridic-
ulous had it not been the offspring of legitimate pathos.
Miss Burden offered her the consolations of one intimately acquainted
with pathos. Every night for many long and weary years she had
longed to go home to her own rustic hermitage, which, however, had
no existence outside her fancy.
^^earest Araminta,'* said Miss Burden, caressing her in a very
genuine manner, "you will soon get used to the strangeness.*'
"I want to go home to Slocum Magna,** sobbed Miss Perry.
"I am sure you are a good and brave and noble girl,** said Miss
Burden, who believed profoundly in goodness and bravery and nobility.
'Tapa said I was,'* sobbed Miss Perry, settling her hand more firmly
than ever upon the basket of Tobias.
"To-morrow you will feel happier, Araminta dearest,** said Miss
Burden, bestowing a final hug upon the distressed Miss Perry.
Miss Burden was guilty of saying that which she did not believe,
but let us hope no one will blame her.
CHAPTER VIII
OABOLINE CBEWKSRNE^S GAINSBOBOUOH
Prom the moment that "Caroline Crewkeme*s Gainsborough** came
upon the town there was no denying her success. She was a new sensa-
tion; and happy in her sponsors the diminished glories of Hill Street
emerged from their eclipse. If old Lady Crewkeme derived a grim satis-
faction from the absolute possession of the nine days' wonder, Andover
was one of the proudest and happiest men in London. He took to him-
self the whole merit of the discovery.
"I assure you,** he declared to a circle of the elect, "that blind old
woman would never have seen the likeness. It was quite providential
that I happened to look in and point it out.**
In matters of art Andover's taste was really fastidious. And in
addition to his other foibles no man was more susceptible to beauty.
Every morning for a week he called at Hill Street, to view his dis-
covery more adequately in the full light of day. It was in vain, how-
ever, that he tried to surprise her. She was kept very close.
For one thing the creature had positively no clothes in which to
submit to the ordeal of the public gaze. Almost the first thing Caroline
Crewkeme did was to send for her dressmaker, who was commanded to
r
44 THE FORUM
make Miss Perry "appear respectable/' and was given only three days in
which to perform the operation.
"I assure your ladyship it is impossible in three days," said the
dressmaker.
"If that is your opinion/' said her ladyship, "I shall go elsewhere.''
As it was her ladyship's custom to pay her bills quarterly, on the
morning of the fourth day Miss Perry came down to breakfast in a
blue serge costume. It was rigid in outline and formal in cut. In fact
it had been chosen by Miss Burden, and had been wrought in the siyle
affected by that model of reticent good breeding.
It was in this attire, surmounted by a straw hat of the regulation
type in lieu of the inverted vegetable basket, that Andover saw Miss
Perry for the second time.
"What are you thinking of, Caroline?" said he tragically. 'T^ere
is your instinct? It is a gross act of vandalism to consign a genuine
Gainsborough to the tender mercies of a woman's tailor."
"Pooh!" said Caroline.
All the same Andover was roused to action. At noon next day a cab
appeared at the door of Caroline's residence. It contained a milliner
and twenty-two hats in divers boxes. The milliner said she had in-
structions to wait for Lord Andover.
The redoubtable Caroline's first instinct was to order the milliner
oflE the premises.
"Gross impertinence," she declared.
However, the perverse old woman had a liberal share of reason.
Andover had his foibles, but emphatically he knew on which side of the
bread to look for the butter. In all matters relating to this world, from
race-horses to French millinery, wise people respected his judgment.
At five minutes after midday Andover himself appeared in the com-
pany of an amiable, courteous and distinguished foreigner.
'TVTiat, pray, is the meaning of this invasion?" said Caroline with
a snort of hostility.
**This is Monsieur Duprez," said Andover, "the great genius who
comes to London twice a year from Eaquin's at Paris."
Monsieur Duprez, overwhelmed by this melodious flattery, very
nearly touched the Persian carpet with his nose. Caroline scowled at
him.
"Andover," said she, "who has given you authority to turn my house
into a dressmaker's shop."
"I have the authority," said Andover, "of a pure taste unvitiated
by Whig prejudice and Victorian tradition. Miss Burden, will you have
ARAMTNTA 45
the great goodness to summon Nature's masterpiece so that Art, her
handmaiden, may make an obeisance to her; and might I also suggest
that you procure Lady Crewkeme's knitting."
Miss Burden, thrilled by the unmistakable impact of romance, waited
with animation for permission to obey Lord Andover.
"I will not have my niece tricked out like a play-actress or an
American,'' said Caroline. "Andover, understand that clearly."
Andover, feeling his position to be impregnable, was as cool as you
please. As is the case with so many people, his coolness bordered upon
insolence. Caroline was so much the slave of her worldly wisdom that
in a case of this kind she would be compelled to bow the knee to an
array of acknowledged experts. Besides, it was so easy for Andover to
justify himself in the most dramatic manner. He pointed with a
dramatic gesture to the world famous Duchess of Dorset.
"Caroline," said he, "if you will take the advice of an old friend,
you will attend to your knitting. Three experts are present. They
can be trusted to deal with this matter eifectually. Indeed, I might say
four. Miss Burden, I know you to be in cordial sympathy with the
highest in whatever form it may manifest itself. Therefore, I entreat
you, particularly as the time of Monsieur Duprez and Madame Pelissier
belongs not to themselves, nor to us, but to civilization, to produce our
great work of nature in order that her handmaiden. Art, may deck
her."
Caroline's hostile upper lip took a double curl, a feat which was the
outcome of infinite practice in the expression of scorn.
^T. hope you will not put ideas into the creature's head, that's all,"
said she. "Fortunately she is such a bom simpleton that it is doubtful
whether she is capable of retaining any. Burden, you may fetch her."
It was a charming April morning and the sunshine was flooding the
room. It made a canopy for Miss Perry as she came in simply and
modestly through the drawing-room door. At once it challenged that
wonderful yellow mane of hers that was the color of daffodils, which
on its own part seemed to reciprocate the flashing caresses of the light
of the morning. The yellow mane appeared to grow incandecent and
shoot out little lights of its own. The glamour of pink and white and
azure was very wonderful, too, as the sunlight wantoned with it in its
own inimitable manner. Here was Juno, indeed, and none recognized
the fact so fully as the Prince of the Morning.
Monsieur Duprez's eyes sparkled. Madame Pelissier gave a little
exclamation.
'TTou have here a great subject," said Lord Andover to those rare
r
46 THE FORUM
artists, ^'and there you have the manner in which the great Gainsborough
treated it/'
Madame Pelissier disclosed her creations. Hat after hat was fitted
to the daffodil-colored mane. Andover walked round and round the
young goddess, surveying each separate effect from every point of view.
His gravity could not have been excelled by a minister of state.
"They must be enormous/' said he with ever-mounting enthusiasm.
"They must sit at the perfect angle. They must be of the hue of the
wing of the raven. Yes, feathers, decidedly. And they must flop
almost absurdly.''
"Andover," said the warning voice, "don't be a coxcomb."
"Yes," said Andover, "I like that wicker-work arrangement. The
way it flops is capital. It will do for week days. But there must be
one for Sunday mornings in which to go to church."
Madame Pelissier was inclined to be affronted by Andover's extreme
fastidiousness. There was not a single creation in the whole collection
which had quite got "that," he declared, snapping his fingers in the
manner of Sir Joshua.
"Madame Pelissier," said he solemnly, "it comes to this. You will
have to invoke your genius to create a Sunday hat for Juno. You
observe what Gainsborough did for her grandmamma. Mark well that
masterpiece, dear Madame Pelissier, for je prends mon bien oil je le
trouve."
''Carte blanche, Milorf said Madame Pelissie with a little shrug.
''Absolument/' said my lord. "Give a free rein to your genius, ma
chire madame. Crown the young goddess with the noblest creation that
ever consecrated the drab pavement of Bond Street."
"I warn you, Andover," said the aunt of the young goddess, "I will
not have the creature figged out like a ballet dancer or a female in a
circus."
"Peace, Caroline," said Andover. ^^here is your knitting?" He
shook a finger of warning. at her. "Really, Caroline, you must refrain
from Philistine observations in the presence of those who are dedicated
to the service of art."
The old lady snorted with great energy.
In the meantime Monsieur Duprez, crowing with delight, was ab-
sorbing Gainsborough's masterpiece.
"I haf it," said he, tapping the centre of his forehead, "ze very
ting."
'Ttf ay it prove so, my dear Duprez," said Andover, "for then we shall
have a nine days' wonder for the town."
ARAMINTA 47
Thus it will be seen that in the beginning ^^Caroline Crewkerne's
(Jainsborough/^ as she was so soon to be christened by the privileged
few who write the labels of history, owed much to Andover's foresight,
judgment and undoubted talent for stage management.
She really made her d^but at Saint Sepulchre's Church, in which
sacred and fashionable edifice, I regret to say, her Aunt Caroline was
an inconstant worshipper — ^and afterwards in Hyde Park on the second
Sunday morning in May.
At least a fortnight before Andover had declared his intention to
the powers that obtained in Hill Street of making Miss Perry known
to London on the first really bright and warm Sunday morning. Thanks
to the behavior of providence her church-goiug clothes arrived the even-
ing before the weather; whilst only a few hours previously a deft-fingered
jewel of a maid had arrived expressly from Paris, at the instance of
the experts, who was learned in the set of the most marvellous frocks
and hats, and who also was a rare artist in the human hair.
Therefore, let none confess to surprise that Miss Perry was the inno-
cent cause of some excitement when she burst upon an astonished world.
Mr. Marchbanks was the first to behold Miss Perry when on this historic
second Sunday morning in May she quitted the privacy of her chamber fit-
tingly clothed to render homage to her Maker. He beheld her as she came
down the stairs in an enormous black hat with a wonderful feather, a
miracle of harmonious daring, and in a lilac frock, not answerrag, it is
true, in every detail to that in which her famous grandmamma had
been painted by Gainsborough, but none the less a triumph for all
concerned in it. However, to judge by the demeanor of shocked stupe-
faction of the virtuous man who first regarded it, who himself was
about to accompany Mrs. Plunket to divine worship, this was an achieve-
ment that was not to the taste of everybody. In the opinion of Mr.
Marchbanks, it might be magnificent but it was not religion.
By one of those coincidences in which" real life indulges so reck-
lessly. Miss Perry had not reached the bottom of the stairs when
Andover, duly admitted by Mr. Collins, and himself armed cajhd-pie for
divine worship in a brand-new wig, with freshly dyed moustache, light
gray trousers, lilac gloves, white gaiters, and a single bloom in his
buttonhole appeared on the parquet floor of the entrance hall.
His greeting was almost as melodramatic as his appearance.
"A positive triumph,*' he cried. "My dear young lady — ^my dear
Miss Perry — ^my dear Miss Araminta, the highest hopes of a sanguine
temperament have been exceeded. Art, the handmaiden, has done her
work nobly, but, of course, the real triumph belongs to nature.*'
r
48 THE FORUM
"Isn't my new frock a nice one?'' said Miss Perry.
"Incomparable."
"It is almost as nice as the mauve one Muffin had last summer but
one/' said Miss Perry.
It seemed to Andover that the drawl of Miss Peny was absurdly
suited to her clothes. He led her proudly to the morning room.
"Caroline," said he, "prepare for the conquest of London."
That old woman had never looked so fierce. As a preliminary she
snuffed the air.
^^urden," said she, "cease behaving like a fool and have the goodness
to get my spectacles."
Miss Burden obeyed her in a kind of delirium. The scrutiny of
Caroline Crewkeme was severe and prolonged. There was no approba-
tion in it.
"An old-fashioned respect for the English Sunday," said she, "pre-
cludes my going to church with a tableau vivant"
Andover scorned her openly.
^TTou perverse woman," said he, "why are you so blind? Here is a
triumph that will ring through the town. Are you prepared to identify
yourself with it or are you not?"
Caroline Crewkeme subjected her niece to a second prolonged and
severe scrutiny.
"Humph," said she ungraciously.
However, she was a very shrewd old woman. Further, she was a
very clear-sighted old woman who knew herself to be what Andover
did not hesitate to proclaim her. She was a Philistine. Upon any matter
which impinged upon life's amenities she was far too wise to trudt her
own judgment. Andover, on the other hand, in spite of an inclination
toward the bizarre and the freakish, she allowed to have taste.
"I shall go to church," she announced to her gentlewoman.
She spoke as if she were flinging down a gauntlet.
The Church of Saint Sepulchre, as the elect do not need to be told,
is quite near to Hill Street. Caroline Crewkeme was ready to start ten
minutes before the service began.
"Easy, Caroline," said Andover, studying his ^atch reflectively;
"there is no hurry."
"Even if they bore one," said Caroline, "it is not good manners to
be disrespectful to the officiating clergy."
Andover, however, although he advanced no positive reasons why
disrespect should be offered to the officiating clergy, showed a marked
disposition for divine service to begin without him. He loitered and
ARAMIl^A 49
loitered upon absurdly flimsy pretexts. And just as the procession was
about to start from the door of Caroline's residence he mislaid his um-
brella.
CHAPTEE IX
IN WHICH ANDOVEB DROPS HIS UMBRELLA
"Never mind your umbrella," said Caroline tartly.
'T must mind my umbrella," said Andover plaintively. "If one at-
tends divine worship in London in the middle of the season without an
umbrella, one is bound to be taken for an agnostic."
"Collins," demanded Caroline, "what have you done with his lord-
ship's umbrella?"
'TTou placed it here, my lord," said Mr. Collins, indicating an um-
brella with an ivory handle and a gold band.
^Tfonsense," said Andover. "I don't own an umbrella with an ivory
handle."
Mr. Collins looked at the gold band and assured his lordship imper-
turbably that his name was upon it. Andover examined it himself.
"It is the name of my father," said he. "How the dooce did an
umbrella with an ivory handle come into the possession of my father I"
The clock in the hall slowly chimed eleven. The procession started
for Saint Sepulchre's with the redoubtable Caroline in a decidedly un-
christian temper, with Miss Burden profoundly uncomfortable, with Miss
Perry innocently absorbed in her new frock and preoccupied with the
modest hope that the passers-by would notice it; while Andover walked
by her side apparently without a thought in his head save the philo-
sophic significance of an ivory-handled umbrella.
"I remember now, my dear Miss Araminta," said he. ^T.i was given to
my grandfather as a token of esteem by that singularly constituted
monarch George the Fourth."
^T. am sure it must be almost as nice as Muffin's was," said Miss
Perry. "That old gentleman with the white moustache turned round
to look at it."
"Did he ?" said Andover, fixing his eyeglass truculently.
'Muffin's was mauve," said Miss Perry. "But I think lilac is almost
as nice, don't you ?"
"It is all a matter of taste, my dear Miss Araminta," said Andover.
*Tancy one entering a West End church with an umbrella with an ivory
handle."
/
50 ^I^HE FORUM
^Wbj shouldii't one, pray?" snorted Caroline from the recesses of her
bath chair.
"My dear Caroline," said Andover, "it looks so worldly."
"Humph," said Caroline.
Scarcely had the procession reached the outer precincts of Saint Se-
pulchre's when its ears were smitten with the sound of a thousand fervent
Yoices uplifted in adulation of their Creator.
"There, Andover," said Caroline, "now you are satisfied. We are
late."
This fact, however, did not seem to perturb Andover so much as it
ought to have done. He even deprecated the alacrity with which Caro-
line left her bath chair, and the determined manner in which she pre-
pared to head the procession into the sacred edifice.
'^Easy, Caroline," said he. *Tiet *em get fairly on to their 1^.*'
As the procession filed very slowly down the central aisle with the
fervent voices still upraised and the organ loudly pealing, more than one
pair of eyes took their fill of it. There was not a worshipper within those
four walls who did not know who the old woman was with the hawklike
features and the ebony walking stick. Nor were they at a loss for the
identiiy of the distinguished if slightly overdressed gentleman who came
in her train. Moreover, the wonderful creature in the picture hat and the
lilac frock did not fail to inspire their curiosity.
Caroline Crewkeme's pew was at the far end of the church, next but
two to the chancel. The procession had reached the middle of the central
aisle when there came a brief lull in the proceedings. The organ was
mufSed in a passage of peculiar solemnity ; the fervor of the voices was
subdued in harmony; there was hardly a sound to be heard, when An-
dover had the misfortune to drop his umbrella.
The sound of the ivory handle resolutely meeting cold marble at such
an intensely solemn moment was really dramatic. Not a person through-
out the whole of the sacred edifice who could fail to hear the impact of
the ill-fated umbrella. For the umbrella was indeed ill-fated. The
ivory handle lay upon the marble shivered in three pieces. Almost every
eye in the church seemed to be fixed upon the owner of the umbrella. A
wave of indignation appeared to pass over the congregation, which
seemed to make the air vibrate. Not only did the owner of the umbrella
come late to church, but he must needs disturb the sanctity of the occa-
sion by mundanely dropping his umbrella with extraordinary violence
and publicity.
Prom a little to the left of Andover, as he stood ruefully surveying the
wreck of his umbrella, there penetrated cool and youthful tones.
ARAMINTA 51
'Tlffy aunt !" they said, 'Vho is the gal the old fossil's got with him?*'
'^Ssah, Archibald/' came a sibilant whisper; and then arose a louder
and more decisive, "Overdressed I"
A drawl that was remarkably friendly yet of a length that was really
abenrd seemed to float all over the church in the most delightfully subtle
convolutions.
'T"^at a pity," it could be heard to say clearly by all in the vicinity.
*1t cannot be mended. They couldn't mend Muffin's when she dropped
hers at the Hpbson baby's christening."
With a naturalness so absolute did the Amazon with the daffodil
colored mane stoop to assist her companion to retrieve the fragments of
the shattered umbrella that it seemed almost to the onlookers that she
had mistaken the central aisle of Saint Sepulchre's at 11.15 a.h. on the
second Sunday in May for the middle of Ezmoor.
'Tlffy aunt I" said tiie cool and youthful tones, "the gal's tophole."
"Sash, Archibald," said the sibilant whisper. "Dear me, what loud
manners! Sssh, Archibald, don't speak during the confession."
Caroline Crewkeme and her gentlewoman had been kneeling devoutly
upon their hassocks for at least two minutes by the time Andover and
Miss Perry arrived at the second pew from the chancel. Andover bore
in his right hand a fragment of ivory ; in the left the decapitated body of
his umbrella. Somehow his expression of rue did not appear to be quite
so sincere as the circumstances and the surrounding warranted. In the
right hand of Miss Perry was a prayer book; in the left two fragments
of ivory. The gravity of her demeanor was enough to satisfy the most
sensitive beholder.
After the service, as Caroline Crewkeme's party was moving out of
the church, it was joined by no less a person than Qeorge Betterton. Like
Caroline herself, he was an inconstant worshipper at Saint Sepulchre's.
'*Hallo, Qeorge," said Andover, "what the dooce has brought you to
church?"
Andover was not sincere in his inquiry. He knew perfectly well what
had brought George to church. The responsibility for his appearance
there was his entirely.
'TThe weather, Andover," growled Qeorge solemnly. 'Tine momin*
to hear a good sermon."
'T[ don't approve of candles on the altar," said Caroline Crewkeme in
a voice that all the world might heed. "Far too many Eoman practices
have crept into the service lately."
"You are perfectly right, Caroline," said Andover. "That is my own
opinion. I intend to lodge a complaint with the vicar."
/
62 THE FORUM
"How are you, Caroline/^ said George with affability. "It is a great
pleasure to see you at church."
"It is a pleasure you might afford yourself oftener," said Caroline
grimly.
George cast an envious eye to the front. Andover walking with the
lilac frock and the picture hat ten paces ahead of the bath chair ap-
peared to be coming in for a good deal of public attention.
'rSow does it feel, Caroline," said George Betterton, "to go to church
with Grandmother Dorset ?"
"Do you mean my niece. Miss Perry ?" said she with a scant appear-
ance of interest.
'Terry, eh? A girl of Poll/s?"
'TDon't you see the likeness?" said Caroline with a little snort.
*TTo, I don't," said George. "She resembles Polly about as much as
Andover resembles a Christian."
'T agree with you, George," said Caroline Crewkeme.
"She reminds me of what you were in the Fifties, Caroline," said
George, obviously trying to be agreeable.
"A compliment," sneered its recipient.
"Gal's on the big side," said George, "a regular bouncer, but by
George 1"
His grace paused on the apostrophe to his natal saint.
"Carries her clothes like Grandmother Dorset," said he.
"It is a great responsibility," said Caroline, "for a woman of my age
to have a creature like that to look after."
'TMoney?"
"Not a penny," said Caroline bluntly.
"Pity," said George, whose standards were frankly utilitarian. "Fine
looking gal. Andover appears to think so."
By now the space between the bath chair and the first pair in the
procession had been increased to twenty paces.
"Andover," called the old lady, "this is not a coursing match."
Andover checked politely to await the arrival of the powers.
'TDear me," said he, "are we walking quickly ? Miss Araminta moves
like a deer."
"Girl," said the old lady, "don't walk so quickly. You are now in
Hyde Park, not in a lane in Devonshire."
'TTou come from Devon," said George Betterton, addressing Miss
Perry with an air of remarkable benevolence, "where the cream comes
from, eh?"
If I assert positively that Miss Perry made a gesture of licking her lips
ARAMTNTA 53
in a frankly feline manner, I lay myself open to a scathing rebuke from
the feminine section of my readers. They will assnre me that no true
lady would be guilty of such an act when walking in Hyde Park on a
Sunday morning with the highest branch of the peerage. I am by no
means certain she did not. At least the gesture she made was highly
reminiscent of a feat of that nature.
"They promised to send me some from the parsonage," said Miss
Perry wistfully, 'T)ut it hasnH come yet."
*'Shame," said his Grace with deep feeling. '1*11 go round to Bus-
zard's first thing to-morrow and tell *em to send you a pot."
"Oh, thank you so much," said Miss Perry.
"Pray don't mention it, my dear Miss — " said the duke with a some-
what heavy, yet by no means unsuccessful air.
"My name is Araminta," drawled Miss Perry in her delightfully lu-
dicrous manner, 'Tbut they call me Qoose because I am rather a Sillay."
"Charmin*," said his Qrace. "Call you Qoose, eh? Charmin' name."
"A silly name, isn't it?" said Miss Perry.
"Charmin*," said Qeorge Betterton, "charmin* name. V\\ call you
Goose myself, if you have no objection."
"Oh, do please," said Miss Perry, "then I shall know we are friends."
"Capital," said Qeorge. "Shall I tell you. Miss Qoose, what they call
me?"
"Oh, do please," said Miss Perry.
'*They call me Qobo," said his Qrace, 'T)ecau8e I gobble like a turkey."
"What funl" cried Miss Perry. "What a splendid name! I shall
write to tell MuflBn about it."
Miss Perry's clear peal of laughter appeared to excite the curiosity
of a particularly well-groomed and well-gowned section of the British
Public which occupied the chairs along the path. At all events it eyed
the slow-moving procession very intently.
'TIere comes that gal," said the proprietor of the cool and youthful
tones removing a silver mounted stick from his mouth. "She's got an-
other old sportsman with her."
"Sssh, Archibald," said the sibilant voice, "that is the Duke of Lan-
caster."
"He's a lucky old fellow," said the voice of youth. "But if I was that
gal, I wouldn't walk in the park with a chap who has a face like an over-
ripe tomato and who gobbles like a turkey."
"Sssh, Archibald, dearest r
The procession was now almost alongside the youthful critic. Miss
Perry, a positive queen challenging the superb May morning in its
r
54 THE FORUM
glamour and its freshness, with her chin tilted at a rather proud angle,
for she could not help rejoicing simply and sincerely in the attention that
was paid to her new frock, was flanked upon the one hand by Andover,
on the other by George Betterton. Ten paces in the rear came the bath
chair with its hawklike occupant. Beside it was Miss Burden with Ponto
on a lead.
"I tell you what, mater," said the voice of youth. "If those two old
bucks are not ridin' jealous they will be very soon."
"Sssh, my pet," said mamma, placing a particularly neat su^de over
the mouth of young hopeful.
"If you call me Goose," the deliciously ludicrous drawl was borne on
the zephyrs of spring, ^T. may call you Gobo, may I not?"
" 'Arry," said a: bystander with a gesture of ferocious disgust to a com-
panion who embellished a frock coat with a pair of brown boots, "that's
what they call claws. It fairly makes you sick. That's what comes of
'aving a 'ouse of Lords."
The proprietor of the brown boots assented heartily.
"If I was a nob," said he, "I would learn to respect meself."
The voice of command came forth from the bath chair.
"George," it said, ^Tiave you noticed the tulips ?"
"No," said George, "where are they?"
He looked down at his feet to see if he had trodden upon them.
'TBurden," said the old lady, "take the doiok across the road to see
the tulips."
Somewhat reluctantly, it must be confessed, his grace permitted him-
self to be conducted by Ponto and the faithful gentlewoman over the way
to look at a bed of flowers.
"Andover," said Caroline Crewkeme, "to-morrow you must take my
niece to view the National Gallery."
"That will be too sweet," said Miss Perry.
Andover bestowed upon his old friend and adversary a look of wari-
ness tempered with gratitude.
{To be continued)
QUO ABEO 65
QUO ABEO?
BY OEOBGS HERBERT CLARKE
The flood flows down, the sails are spreading.
The destined voyage must begin; —
A quiet farewell, and then, nndreading,
I enter in.
But far at sea — ^*'Sir Captain, shelter
Awaits us whither? What harl)or saves?'' —
Nor sound nor motion but the welter
Of heavy waves.
^TTet tell me — ^there shall be an ending?
Some port with hope of us is lit ?
Within some haven we find friending ?
Ah, teach me it!
"Captain, . . . these seas ... are not uncharted?
We voyage not in blind amaze,
Growing forever fainter-hearted.
Unending days?"
No word, — ^until I fall entreating :
'^If here we wander evermore,
If there shall never be a meeting
Again, ashore, —
"Oh why the vessel, why the sailing? —
Sink we to rest beneath the sea.
Unsought, unlonging, unavailing.
No more to be?'*
Silence — that stings me with the daring
To spring and seize that Shape unknown:
0 Qod — ^^tis I with whom I'm faring
Alone, alone!
George Herbert Clarke,
SPECIAL AKTICLES
THOUGHT TRAS^SFEBEXCE
BY SIS OLIVER LODOB
By thought transference I mean a poeBible commnnication between
mind and mind, by means other, than any of the known organs of sense:
what I may call a sympathetic connection between mind and mind;
using the term mind in a yagne and popnlar sense, withont strict defi-
nition« What do I mean by sympathetic connection? Take some
examples :
A pair of iron lerers, one on the gronnd, the other some hnndred
yards away on a post, are often seen to be sympathetically connected;
for when a railway official hanls one of them throngh a certain angle,
the distant lerer or semaphore arm revolves throngh a similar angle.
The disturbance has travelled from one to the other through a very
obvious medium of communication — ^viz., an iron wire or rope.
The pulling of a knob, followed by the ringing of a bell, is a similar
process, and the transmission of the impulse in either of these cases is
commonly considered simple and mechanical. It is not so simple as we
think; for concerning cohesion we are exceedingly ignorant, and why
one end of a stick moves when the other end is touched no one at present
is clearly able to tell us.
A couple of tuning forks, or precisely similar musical instruments,
isolated from each other and from other bodies, suspended in air, let
us say. Sound one of them and the other responds — ^i.e., begins to emit
the same note. This is known in acoustics as sympathetic resonance;
and again a disturbance has travelled through the medium from one
to the other. The medium in this case is intangible, but quite familiar,
viz., atmospheric air.
Next, suspend a couple of magnets, alike in all respects, pivoted on
points at some distance from each other. Touch one of the magnets and
set it swinging, the other begins to swing slightly, too. Once more a
disturbance has travelled from one to the other, but the medium
in this case is by no means obvious. It is nothing solid, liquid,
or gaseous; that much is certain. Whether it is material or not
depends partly on what we mean by material — ^partly requires more
SPECIAL ARTICLES 67
knowledge before a satisfactory answer can be given. We do, however,
know something of the medium operative in this case, and we call it
eiher.
In these cases the intensity of the response varies with distance, and
at a snfficiently great distance the response would be imperceptible. This
may hastily be set down as a natural consequence of a physical medium
of communication and a physical or mechanical disturbance ; but it is not
quite so. A couple of telephones connected properly by wires are sympa-
tiietic, and if one is tapped the other receives a shock. Whatever is said
to one is repeated by the other, and distance is practically unimportant;
at any rate, there is no simple law of inverse square, or any such kind
of law; there is a definite channel for the disturbance between the two.
The i:eal medium of communication is still the ether.
Take a mirror, pivoted on an axle, and capable of slight motion. At
a distance let there be a suitable receiving instrument, say a drum of
photographic paper and a lens. If the sun is shining on the mirror, and
everything properly arranged, a line may be drawn by it on the paper
miles away, and every tilt given to the mirror shall be reproduced as a
kink in the line. This may go on over great distances; no wire or
anything else commonly called "material" connecting the two stations,
nothing but a beam of sunlight, a peculiar state of the ether.
So far we have been dealing with mere physics. To poach a little
on the ground of physiology, take two brains, as like as possible, say
belonging to two similar animals; place them a certain distance apart,
with no known obvious means of communication, and see if there is any
sympathetic link between them. Apply a stimulus to one and observe
whether the other in any way responds. To make the experiment con-
veniently, it is best to avail one's self of the entire animal and not of
its brain alone. It is then easy to stimulate one of the brains through
any of the creature's peripheral sense organs, and it may be possible to
detect whatever effect is excited in the other brain by some motor im-
pulse, some muscular movement of the appropriate animal.
So far as I know, the experiment has hitherto been principally tried
on man. This has certain advantages and certain disadvantages. The
main advantage is that the motor result of intelligent speech is more
definite and instructive than mere pawings and gropings or twitchings.
The main disadvantage is that the liability to conscious deception and
fraud becomes serious, much more serious than it is with a less cunning
animal.
It by no means follows that the experiment will succeed with a lower
animal* because it succeeds with man; but I am not aware of its having
58 THE FORUM
been tried at present except with man. A simple mode of trying the
experiment would be to pinch or hurt one animal and see if the other
can feel any pain. If it does feel anything it will probably twitch and
rub, or it may become vocal with displeasore.
There are two varieties of the experiment: First, with some manifest
link or possible channel, as, for instance, where two individuals hold
hands through a stnffed-np hole in the wall; and, second, with no such
obvious medium, as when they are at a distance from one another.
Instead of simple pain in any part of the skin, one may stimulate
the brain otherwise by exciting some special sense organ; for instance,
those of taste or smell. Apply nauseous or pleasant materials to the
palate of one animal and watch the countenance of the other; or, if
human, get the receptive person to describe the substance which, the
other is tasting.
These experiments have been tried with human subjects, and they
have had a fair measure of positive result. But I am not concerned
with making assertions regarding facts, or expecting credence at present.
A serious amount of study is necessary before one is in a position to
criticise any statement of fact. What I am concerned to show is that
such experiments are not on the face of them absurd; that they are
experiments which ought to be made; and that any result actually
obtained, if definite and clear, ought to be gradually and cautiously
accepted, whether it be positive or negative.
It may be objected that my mode of statement involves some
hypothesis. The nerves of an individual. A, are stimulated, and the
muscles of another individual, B, respond. How do I know that the
hrain of either A or S has anything to do with it? Why may it not
be an immediate connection between the peripheral sense organs them-
selves? This is improbable, and we are driven by probability to ascend
at least as high as brain in order to explain such facts as I have postu-
lated as possibly true. I have not the slightest wish to dogmatise, and
only to save space do I make that much assumption.
An experiment with a sound or smell stimulus is manifestly not very
crucial imless the intervening distance between A and B is excessive.
But a sight stimulus can be readily confined within narrow limits of
space. Thus, a picture can be held up in front of the eyes of A, and B
can be asked if he sees anything; if he does, to describe it or to draw it.
If the picture or diagram thus shown to A is one that has only just been
drawn by the responsible experimenter himself; if it is one that has
no simple name that can be signalled; if A is not allowed to touch B
or to move during the course of the experiment, and has never seen
SPECIAL ARTICLES 69
the picture before; if, by precaution of screening, rays from the picture
can be positively asserted never to have entered the eyes of B; and if,
nevertheless, B describes it, however dimly, and is able to draw it, in
dead silence on the part of all concerned, then the experiment would be
a good one.
But not yet would it be conclusive. We must consider who A and B
are. If they are a pair of persons who go about together and make
money out of the exhibition; if they are in any sense a brace of pro-
fessionals accustomed to act together, nothing is solidly proved by such
an experiment, for cunning is by no means an improbable hypothesis.
Cunning takes such a variety of forms it is best to eliminate it alto-
gether. That can be done by using unassorted individuals in unaccus-
tomed rooms. True, the experiment may thus become much more
diflBcult, if not quite impossible. Two entirely different tuning forks
will not respond. Two strangers are not usually sympathetic, in the
ordinary sense of the word; perhaps we ought not to expect a response.
Nevertheless, the experiment must be made, and if £ is found able to
respond, not only to 41, but also to 42, 43, and other complete
strangers, under tiie conditions above stated, then the experiment may be
r^arded as satisfactory. I am prepared to assert that such satisfactory
experiments have been made.
Whenever I use the term thought-transference, I never mean any-
thing like public performances, whether by genuine persons or impostors.
The human race is so constituted that such performances have their
value — ^they incite others to try experiments; but in themselves, and
scientifically, public performances are useless, and often tend to obscure
a phenomenon by covering it with semi-legitimate contempt.
Suppose A and B left alone, and not stimulated by any third person,
C; it is quite possible for A to combine the functions of G with his own
functions and to stimulate himself. He may look at a picture or a play-
ing card, or he may taste a substance, or he may, if he can, simply think
of a ntmiber, or a scene, or an event, and, so to speak, keep it vividly in
his mind. It may happen that B will be able to describe the scene of
which A is thinking, sometimes almost correctly, sometimes with a large
admixture of error, or at least of dimness.
To go a step further. Let A and B be not thinking of experiment-
ing at all. Let them be at a distance from one another, and going about
their ordinary vocations, including somnolence and other passive as well
as active occupations of the twenty-four hours. Let us, however, not
suppose them strangers, but relatives or intimate friends; still better,
perhaps (I make no assertions on any of these points), twin brothers.
r
go THE FORUM
Let something vividly excite A; let him fall down a cliff, or be run over
by a horse, or fall into a river; or let him be taken violently ill, or be
subject to some strong emotion; or let him be at the point of death.
Is it not conceivable that if any such sympathetic connection between
individuals as I have been postulating exists, that a violent stimulus,
such as we have supposed A to receive, may be able to induce in B, even
though inattentive and otherwise occupied, some dim echo, reverberation,
response, and cause him ta be more or less aware that A is suffering or
perturbed? If B is busy, self-absorbed, actively engaged, he may notice
nothing. If he happen to be quiescent, vacant, moody, or half or whole
asleep, he may realize and be conscious of something. He may perhaps
only feel a vague sense of depression in general; or he may feel the de-
pression and associate it definitely with A; or he may be more distinctly
aware of what is happening, and call out that A had a fall, or an ac-
cident, or is being drowned, or is ill; or he may have a specially vivid
dream which will trouble him long after he wakes; or he may think he
hears A' 8 voice; or lastly, he may conjure up an image of A so vividly
before his ^'mind's eye'' that he may be able to persuade himself and
others that he has seen his apparition — sometimes a mere purposeless ap-
parition, sometimes in a setting of a sort of vision or picture not unlike
what is at the time elsewhere really happening.
I confess that the weight of testimony is sufficient to satisfy my own
mind that such things do undoubtedly occur; that distance is no barrier
to the sympathetic communication of intelligence in some way of which
we are at present ignorant; that the danger or death of a distant child,
or brother, or husband may be signalled to the heart of a human being
fitted to be the recipient of such a message. We call the process telepathy —
sympathy at a dis^tancc; we do not understand it. What is the medium
of communication? Is it through the air, like the timing forks; or
through the ether, like the magnets ; or is it something non-physical, and
exclusively psychical ? No one can as yet tell. We must know far more
about it before we can answer that question, perhaps before we can be
sure whether the question has a meaning or not.
Meanwhile, plainly, telepathy strikes us as a spontaneous occurrence
of that intercommunication between mind and mind (or brain and
brain) which, for want of a better term, we at present siyle thought-
transference. We may be wrong in thus regarding it, but as scientific
men that is how we are bound to regard it unless forced by the weight of
evidence into some apparently less tenable position. The opinion is
strengthened by the fact that the spontaneously occurring impressions
can be artificially and experimentally imitated by conscious attempts to
SPECIAL ARTICLES 61
produce them. Individuals are known who can by an effort of will excite
the brain of another person at a moderate distance^ say another part of
the same town, possibly further — ^I am not sure of that — so that these
second persons imagine that they hear him call or they see his face.
These are called experimental apparitions and appear well established.
What is the meaning of this unexpected sympathetic resonance, this
syntonic reverberation between minds? Is it conceivably the germ of a
new sense, something which the human race is, in the progress of evolu-
tion, destined to receive in fuller measure ? or is it the relic of a faculty
possessed by our animal ancestry before speech was?
I have no wish to intrude speculations, and I cannot answer these
questions except in terms of speculation. I wish to assert nothing but
what I believe to be solid and verifiable facts. Suppose I discover a piece
of paper with scrawls on it. I may guess they are intended for some-
thing, but as they are to me illegible hieroglyphics, I carry it to one per-
son after another and get them to look at it, but it excites in them no
response. They perceive little more than a savage would perceive. But
not so with all of them. One man to whom I show it has the perceptive
faculiy, so to speak; he becomes wildly excited; he begins to sing; he
rushes for an arrangement of wood and catgut, and fills the air with
vibrations. Even the others can now faintly appreciate the meaning.
The piece of paper was a lost manuscript of Beethoven.
What sort of thought transference is that? Where is the A to whom
the ideas originally occurred? He has been dead for years; his thought
has been fossilized, lain dormant in matter, but it only wanted a sym-
pathetic and educated mind to perceive it, to revive it, and to make it
the property of the world. Idea, I call it; but it is not only idea: there
may be a world of emotion stored in matter, ready to be released as by a
detent. Action of mind on matter, reaction of matter on mind — ^are
these things, after all, commonplaces, too ?
If so, what is not possible?
Here is a room where a tragedy occurred, where the human spirit was
strung to intensest anguish. Is there any trace of that agony present
still and able to be appreciated by an attuned and receptive mind? I
assert nothing, except that it is not inconceivable. I do not regard the
evidence for these things as so conclusive as for some of the other
phenomena I have dealt with, but the belief in such facts may be forced
upon us, and the garment of superstition is already dropping from them.
They will take their place if true, in an orderly universe, along with
other not wholly unallied and already well-known occurrences.
Is it credible that a relic, a lock of hair, an old garment, retains any
/
Q2 'I^HE FORUM
indication of a departed, retains any portion of his personality ? Does not
an old letter? Does not a painting? An ''old master^ we call it There
may be much of the personality of the old master ihns preserved. Is not
the emotion felt on looking at it a kind of thought-transference from the
departed? A painting differs from a piece of music in that it is con-
stantly incarnate, as it were. It is there for all to see, for some to under-
stand. The music requires incarnation, it can be performed, as we say,
and then it can be af^redated. But in no case without the attuned and
thoughtful mind; and so these things are, in a sense, thought-transfer*
ence, but deferred thought-transference. They may be likened to
telepathy, not only reaching over tracts of space, but deferred through
epochs of time.
Think over these great things and be not unduly sceptical about little
things. An attitude of keen and critical inquiry must continually be
maintained, and in that sense any amount of scepticism is not only
legitimate but necessary. The kind of scepticism I deprecate is not that
which sternly questions and rigorously probes, it is rather that which
confidently asserts and dogmatically denies. But this kind is not true
scepticism, in the proper sense of the word, for it deters inquiry and for-
bids inspection. It is too positive concerning the boundaries of knowl-
edge and the line where superstition begins.
Phantasms and dreams, and ghosts, crystal-gazing, premonitions, and
clairvoyance: the region of superstition; yes, but possibly also the r^on
of fact. As taxes on credulity they are trifles compared to the things
we are already familiar with— only too familiar with — stupidly and
inanely inappreciative of.
Let superstition envelop the whole of our knowledge and existence
if it envelop any, but let it be called by a less ignoble name.
A FORGOTTEN AMERICAN POET
BY WALTER PRICHABD BATON
It was with rather more than a dash of scepticism that I read the
. letter from a friend, who was delving in the John Carter Brown library
in Providence, announcing that he had discovered nuggets of pure gold
in a volume of American verse by Frederick Goddard Tuekerman,,a poet
whose work finds no place in Mr. Stedman's anthology, and who is prob-
ably unknown to most of the readers of The Fobuh^ as he was to me.
I sent an order for his book, however, to a dealer in Boston, and then
forgot the incident.
SPECIAL ARTICLES 63
A year later the book came, evidently after long search. It was the
second edition, published in Boston by Tieknor and Fields in 1864,
bonnd in the familiar brown of that famous house. The first edition was
printed in 1860. My copy bore this inscription on the fly leaf: "Mrs.
H. B. Stowe, with the compliments of the author." I looked within for
marginal notes, but if Mrs. Stowe read, she had made no comments. The
only inserts were newspaper clippings about the Beecher family I The
gold nuggets that my friend promised, however, were there, and as I
read I wondered why poetry such as this had found no tiniest place in
an American anthology, why this introspective, withdrawing, contempla-
tive man, for all the metrical faults and the slender bulk of his verse,
was so absolutely unknown in the history of American letters. It did not
seem just or right. I should like if possible to shed a tiny ray back upon
his memory. His was a rare, if imperfect poetic faculty; and certain
portions of his verse are worthy of perpetuation.
About his history I have been able to learn little. He was born in 1821,
of a distinguished Boston family. Joseph Tuckerman, the noted phil-
anthropist and Unitarian clergyman, was his uncle. His older brother
was Edward Tuckerman, the famous professor of botany at Amherst Col-
lege from 1858 to 1886. And one of his cousins was Henry T. Tucker-
man, once prominent as a critic and poet. He entered the class of 1841
at Harvard, but left at the end of his Freshman year. Thomas Went-
worth Higginson, a classmate, writes to me : *T[ never knew why he left
my class, but perhaps from such family obstacles as his older brother met.
I remember he came back among us at some kind of gathering during our
college course and seemed very cordial and friendly to all. I remember
him as a refined and gentlemanly fellow, but did not then know him as
a poet. I see him put down as a lawyer in Boston [in Adams* Diction-
ary of American Authors], but have no recollection of that fact. His
name appears in the list of the Law School, from 1840 to 1842, and he
took his degree as LL.B.'* His class secretary, the Hon. John S. Keyes,
of Concord, Mass., has not been able to supply me with further informa-
tion. He published but the one volume of poetry, when he was thirty-
nine, and nothing else. That poetry shows him as passing much of his
time in the country, apparently in Western Massachusetts. He could
hardly have taken an active part in the life of Boston — ^then a much
smaller city — or Colonel Higginson, himself in the thick of everything,
would have met him. Evidently his was the life of a recluse.
But perhaps the man is suflBciently self-revealing in his verse. At a
period when the country was stirring to ]U flopths with the great issues
that precipitated the Civil War, he wrote of hare-bells in the woods and
r
64 ^THE FORUM
the slow, quiet march of the seasons. At a time when Patmore's The
Angel in the Hottse was oi^e of the six best sellers (fancy a book of verse
ever having been a best seller!) he troubled little with narrative poetry.
At a period when American poetry was only too full alike of moral
platitudes and flowers of speech, his poetry was filled with the flowers of
the field. A minute and faithful and tender rendering of the New
England landscape about him was his interest — ^that, and his own moods.
There may well be a trace of Thoreau and the Transcendentalists in his
work. But mostly, even in its faults, it is but himself — ^a shy, thoughtful,
imagiuative man, withdrawing from the world, not so much scornful of
its ways as little caring for them or imderstanding them. Tjacking the
philosophical depth and the sense of form and style which distinguished
Edward Eowland Sill, he yet had Sill's gift of pensive introspection, with
a love of Nature for its own sake quite his own. His famous brother
could not handle plants and flowers more lovingly than he. His poetry
deals almost exclusively with the Nature about him and his own moods
in the face of it, and with the small but poignant ripples of his personal
griefs.
His favorite medium is the sonnet; and yet there is not a per-
fectly formed sonnet in his volume. He either scorned or did not
know the rules of the sonnet form. The sonnet mood, however, he
knew veiy well, and could create with a kind of passionate dignity
fourteen line stanzas that make the poetry of his cousin Henry, included
in every anthology, look trivial and commonplace. Here are two, the
one flowing out of the other, as was his unfortunate trick, that show
him in one of his frequent moods of religious awe, and show, too,
the flashes of pure gold in his imagination, as in the first three lines
of the second sonnet:
The starry flower, the flower-like stars that fade
And brighten with the daylight and the dark —
The bluet in the green I faintly mark,
The glimmering crags with laurel overlaid,
Even to the Lord of light, the Lamp of shade.
Shine one to me — ^the least, still glorious made
As crowned moon or heaven's great hierarch.
And so, dim grassy flower and night- lit spark,
Still move me on and upward for the True;
Seeking through change, growth, death, in new and old.
The full in few, the statelier in the less.
With patient pain ; always remembering this —
His hand, who touched the sod with showers of gold,
Stippled Orion on the midnight blue.
SPECIAL ABTICLES 65
And BO, as this great sphere (now turning slow
Up to the light from that abyss of stars.
Now wheeling into gloom through simset bars)
With all its elements of form and flow.
And life in life, where crown'd yet blind must go
The sensible king — is but a Unity
Compressed of motes impossible to know;
Which worldlike yet in deep analogy
Have distance, march, dimension and degree;
So the round earth — ^which we the world do call —
Is but a grain in that which mightiest swells.
Whereof the stars of light are particles.
As ultimate atoms of one infinite Ball
On which God moves, and treads beneath his feet the All !
Turning the page we come on a poem called "The Question/' '^ow
shall I array my love?'' he asks. He ranges the earth for rare robes and
jewels, but, because his love is a simple New England girl, he rejects
them all as inappropriate, even as unworthy, and closing sings :
The riyer- riches of the sphere.
All that the dark sea-bottoms bear,
The wide earth's green convexity,
The inexhaustible blue sky,
Hold not a prize so proud, so high.
That it could grace her, gay or grand.
By garden-gale and rose-breath fanned;
Or as to-night I saw her stand,
Lovely in the meadow land.
With a clover in her hand.
It would be hard to excel the magic simplicity of these lines. Surely,
here again is gold.
Tuckerman's powers of observation of natural effects might be illus-
trated by a hundred examples. Perhaps these opening lines to ''The
School Girl," a New England idyll, will serve as well as any :
The wind, that all the day had scarcely clashed
The cornstalks in the sun, as the sun sank
Came rolling up the valley like a wave.
Broke in the beech and washed among the pine,
And ebbed to silence; but at the welcome sound —
Leaving my lazy book without a mark.
In hopes to lose among the blowing fern
The dregs of headache brought from yesternight.
And stepping lightly lest the children hear —
I from a side door slipped, and crossed a lane
With bitter Mayweed lined, and over a field
r
QQ THE FORUM
Snapping with grasshoppers, untO I came
Down where an interrupted brook held way
Among the alders. There, on a strutting branch
Leaving my straw, I sat and wooed the west.
With breast and palms outspread as to a fire.
But these powers of obseryation are again illustrated in '^argites,''
a lyric of thirteen stanzas that may well stand to the reader of to-day as
the essence of this forgotten poef s gif t^ and of his life. The poem begins :
I neither plough the field nor sow.
Nor hold the spade, nor drive the cart.
Nor spread the heap, nor hiU nor hoe.
To keep the barren land in heart.
After four stanzas in similar strain the reader comes upon this exquisite
bit of landscape paintings as simple^ as humble^ yet as instinct with sug-
gestion as any in the works of Tuckerman's unf orgotten contemporaries :
But, leaning from my window, chief
1 mark the Autumn's mellow signs —
The frosty air, the yellow leaf.
The ladder leaning on the vines.
The maple from his brood of boughs
Puts northward out a reddening limb;
The mist draws faintly round the house;
And all the headland heights are dim.
Then the poem continues to its close:
And yet it is the same as when
I looked across the chestnut woods,
And saw the barren landscape then
O'er the red bunch of lilac buds;
And all things seem the same. Tis one
To lie in sleep, or toil as they
Who rise beforetime with the sun,
And so keep footstep with their day;
For aimless oaf and wiser fool
Work to one end by differing deeds; —
The weeds rot in the standing pool ;
The water stagnates in the weeds;
And all by waste or warfare falls.
Has gone to wreck, or crumbling goes,
Since Nero planned his golden walls.
Or the Cham Cublai built his house.
SPECIAL ARTICLES 67
But naught I reck of change and fray;
Watching the clouds at morning driven.
The still declension of the day;
And, when the moon is just in heaven,
I walk, unknowing where or why;
Or idly lie beneath the pine.
And bite the dry brown threads, and lie
And think a life well lost is mine.
*'A life well lostl" The phrase is pathetically revealing — ^and pro-
phetic. Would it have been lost if Tnckerman had possessed a sense of
stylCy or a care for style, so that in this poem just quoted, for example,
the better stanzas had not been followed by the crudities of the rest? He
was a poet by instinct, but not by trade. Too often his verse is valuable
as the revelation of a personality to the curious seeker, not as music to
the many. There is something precious, almost amateur, about it. There
is a delicate Pharisaism in this sonnet, for instance, that may conceiv-
ably have grated on the sterner consciences of his neighbors :
"That boy," the fanner said, with hazel wand
Pointing him out, half by the haycock hid,
"Though bare sixteen can work at what he's bid
From sun till set, to cradle, reap or band."
I heard the words, but scarce could understand
Whether they claimed a smile or gave me pain;
Or was it aught to me, in that green lane.
That all day yesterday, the briers amid.
He held the plough against the jarring land
Steady, or kept his place among the mowers;
Whilst other lingers, sweeping for the flowers.
Brought from the forest back a crimson stain T
Was it a thorn that touched the flesh T or did
The poke-berry spit purple on my hand T
And yet how far he was in soul from mere Pharisaism, how much this
shy searcher for poke-berries and lover of the field flowers was troubled
by the world-old problems, the two sonnet sequences at the end of his
book attest. The first sequence closes with several sonnets depicting
the discords in Nature,
For Nature daily through her grand design
Breathes contradiction when she seems most clear.
The final sonnet — ^like all the rest departing, after the first four lines,
completely from the established rhyme scheme — ^is surely none the less
eg THE FOBUM
toudied with fire from the hi^ altar; surely it flashes hints of an
imagination that missed by ever so litUe poetic greatness.
Not the round natoral world, not the deep mind.
The reconcilement holds: the blue abyss
Collects it not; our arrows sink amiss;
And but in Him may we our import find.
The agony to know, the grief, the bliss
Of toil, is Tain and vain! clots of the sod
Gathered in heat snd haste, and flung behind.
To blind ourselves and others — what but this.
Still grasping dust and sowing toward the wind?
No more thy meaning seek, thine anguish plead;
But leaving straining thought and stammering word
Across the barren azure pass to God;
Shooting the void in silence, like a bird —
A bird that shuts his wings for better speed!
The sequence which closes the book is curiously intimate, almost it
is a diary of the poef s moods of grief for the loss of the woman he loved.
In an earlier lyric he describes a trip into the woods in April, where he
finds Mayflowers pushing up through the mouldy presaging summer. The
poem closes with these stanzas:
Since I found that buried garland.
Fair and fresh and rosy-cold,
All has been its life for^hadowed —
Woods in umbrage banked and rolled.
Meadows brimmed with clover, ridges
Where through fern the lupine crowds.
And upon the sandstone led^ges
Laurel heaped like sunset clouds:
But the wayward mind, regretful.
Wanders through that April day.
And, by fields forever faded,
Seems to tread a vanished way.
Till it finds those low lights fiushing
Through the pine trees* mouldered spines,
And hears still the mournful gushing
Of the north wind in the pines.
A mind thus attimed to delicate melancholy could not but envisage
a grief vastly deeper, more real, to linger over it and to make of it some-
thing piercing and beautiful.
SPECIAL ARTICLES 69
Again, again, ye part in stormy grief
From these bare hills and bowers so built in vain,
And lips and hearts that will not move again —
Pathetic Autumn and the writhled leaf;
Dropping away in tears with warning brief :
The wind reiterates a wailful strain.
And on the skylight beats the restless rain,
And vapour drowns the mountain, base and brow.
I watch the wet black roofs through mist defined,
I watch the raindrops strung along the blind,
And my heart bleeds, and all my senses bow
In grief; as one mild face, with suffering lined.
Comes up in thought: oh, wildly, rain and wind,
Mourn on ! she sleeps, nor heeds your angry sorrow now.
Here is a poem worthy of a place in Mr. Stedman's or any other
anthology of American poetry. It violates the metrical rule of the son-
net; but do not call it a sonnet^ then^ call it simply a stanza. Surely
inspiration outweighs mere form. The bit of observation of the raindrops
"strung along the blind*' gives it a pictorial vividness not unlike Bossetti^
and '*the wet black roofs through mists defined/' also. It has passion,
sincerity; it stabs. Or, again, take this sonnet, even more irregular in
form, but hardly less passionately sincere, and in its closing couplet
truly and splendidly imaginative :
My Anna ! when for thee my head was bowed,
The circle of the world, sky, mountain, main,
I>rew inward to one spot; and now again
Wide Nature narrows to the shell and shroud.
In the late dawn they will not be forgot.
And evenings early dark; when the low rain
Begins at nightfall, though no tempests rave,
I know the rain is falling on her grave ;
The morning views it, and the sunset cloud
Points with a finger to that lonely spot;
The crops, that up the valley rolling go.
Ever toward her slumber bow and blow!
I look on the sweeping com and the surging rye.
And with every gust of wind my heart goes by!
It must not be supposed that the predominant note of Tuckerman's
one slender volume is elegiac ; rather is it a note of tender, wistful con-
templation of the quiet New England countryside, a contemplation at
once of its pictorial charm and of its meanings for the soul of Man. But,
for a poet so introspective, personal griefs were his profoundest passion.
Possibly I cannot do better in closing than to quote one more of his
r
70
THE FORUM
elegiac poems. Unlike all his other lyrics, it makes little pretence at
keeping within metrical limitations, or at anj rate limitations of rhyme.
For that reason, perhaps, it is all the more characteristic. If Frederick
Goddard Tnckerman is a forgotten poet it is his lack of a sostained and
well-wronght style which has made him so, no less tiian his withdrawal
from the ways of men into the still fields behind his home, than the trail,
slender nature of his mnse. Yet one wonders why this lyric, at least,
has been so utterly obliterated by time^ the more when one reads the
scores by his contemporaries which have been preserved in the anthologies.
Where will you find one of theirs, after all, with quite the simple, sting-
ing grief of this, though it trip to rhyme ever so sweetly? —
I took from its g^aas a flower.
To lay on her graTe with doU, accosiiig tears;
Bnt the heart of the flower fell out as I handled the rose.
And my heart is shattered and soon will wither away.
I watch the changing shadows.
And the patch of windy sunshine upon the hiU,
And the long hlue woods ; and a grief no tongue can tell
Breaks at my eyes in drops of bitter rain.
I hear her baby wagon.
And the little wheels go over my heart:
Oh! when will the light of the darkened house return?
Oh! when will she come who made the hills so fair?
I sit by the parlor window,
\\1ien twilight deepens and winds grow cold without;
But the blessed feet no more come up the walk.
And my little girl and I cry softly together.
Walter Prichard Eaton.
WHAT IS PRAGMATISM?
BY P. O. AONEW
Singe the intellectual renaissance brought about by the general
acceptance of evolutionary theory, and the spread of its doctrines to a
dominant place in every department of thought, there has been very
little progress in the regular schools of metaphysics. And it is now
agreed by friends and foes alike that at the present time there is but one
live, really live and growing, subject in the whole field of philosophy.
That subject is pragmatism.
SPECIAL ARTICLES 71
As it daims to be merely a logical development of the Bcientific
method^ it is doubtless best to approach it from that standpoint.
To the lay mind it is very disconcerting to see the kaleidoscopic
changes that are continually taking place in all branches of science. We
have no sooner accepted the nebular hypothesis as one of the ultimate
laws of nature than the geologist on the one hand and the mathematician
on the other tell us that it will have to be abandoned. One generation
of naturalists delights us by teaching us to believe that every coral
island is built from the bottom of the ocean by the accumulated remains
of millions of generations of polyps, and the next would have us believe
that they are merely the caps of oceanic mountains.
For a century the very foundation on which chemistry was built
was the doctrine that the mass, the total amount of things in the uni-
verse, was unchangeable, but now more chemists doubt it than believe it.
Sixty years ago Adam Smith was thought to have said all but the last
word on economics, and his principle of laissez-faire was the holy of
holies; but now laissez-faire has been abandoned and only a single one
of his laws remains unchallenged.
And so it is in all lines ; theories of inheritance, of chemical affinity,
of disease, of health, of life, of death — all come and go so rapidly that
we can scarcely keep pace with the procession. And when we look into
any specialized phase of a subject, the host of ever-changing theories
simply bewilders any but the extreme specialist
And now the interesting part of it is that the man of science is
the very one who is not worried by these shifting sands. He is too busy
using the various theories to accomplish things. He seems to think
no more of discarding one theory for another than he does of taking up
a larger test-tube or beaker, or of adjusting his microscope to a diflferent
power.
Spencer has well said that the aim of science is prediction. Now
your man of science wfints, first of all, to predict correctly, and, secondly,
to do it easily. Accordingly, he picks out the most workable theory, or,
if none will do it well, he tries to invent a better, exactly as a carpenter
would select the most suitable of his tools, or try to design a new and
better one. The man who calculated eclipses by the cycles and epicycles
of Ptolemy was no less an astronomer than he who uses tables founded
on Newton's law.
Gibbon states that in Eome, "to the common people all religions were
all equally true, to the philosopher all equally false, and to the politician
all equally useful.'* Your man of science is a true politician when it
comes to theories.
/
72 THE FORUM
The old-time definition assumed that there were three stages in the
development of a theory — hypothesis, theory, law — each indicating the
amount of confidence that was placed in it at different stages of its
evolution. But the newer view is to regard a theory as changing into a
fact as it is shown to work in more and more cases. It is now a fact
that the earth is round, though before Columbus it was a theory. His
arguments and achievement, Magellan's feat, the shadows in eclipses,
and, most of all, modem surveying, have shown that the erstwhile theory
works, that it is so useful as to be necessary in many different fields and
so is dubbed a fact.
A scientific fact, then, seems to be a scientific theory that has been
verified. And it is worth while noting that verify literally means to
make rather than to show to be true. In reading the narrative of the
attempts of an investigator like Faraday to make headway in developing
a new science, one can but liken him to a man getting out of a labyrinth.
At every step a dozen different paths may be followed. The one that
leads him out is the '*true*' ohe. There may be several "true** ones. Each
path is a claim to truth, which has to be validated. The pioneer investi-
gator must needs be interested in finding a "true" way, not the "truest"
way, which means simply the most convenient way. That must be
striven for by those who come after, surveying and resurveying; but they
can never be sure that they have the method that is absolutely best,
for who knows but some one will later find a still better path to
tunnel out ?
Now science is nothing but specialized common sense. We more or
less unconsciously go through the same process a thousand times every
day. We are startled by an unusual sound at night. A dozen explana-
tions— that is, theories — each having a claim to truth, demand accept-
ance. The most of them work so poorly — that is, are so absurd — ^that we
do not dare suggest them to our companions. One or two of these
claims to truth seem to work better and we orally propose them. Each
is tried to see if it fits in well with the great body of theories which
we have found to work well enough so that we call them the facts of
every-day life. One works undeniably the best, and we say that the
cat has made an unsuccessful attempt to mount the pantry shelf.
A pragmatist woidd say that each one has made this fact for himself
by showing that it, as a theory, is consistent with the body of theories
which he has accepted until they have become facts, rather than that he
has discovered a fact absolutely existent independently of him. In order
to make this at all clear, or seemingly credible, we must go into it a
little farther.
SPECIAL ARTICLES 73
Several cases have occurred of a person bom blind having the sight
given by an operation. In each case the person had to learn to see. A
landscape with people and objects in the foreground all seemed to one
man as a mere indistinct blotch of colors^ existing not in the outside
world, but within his own eye. It is only by sorting the same maze of
guesses, theories, that such a person classifies the complex into directions,
distances, and objects, each one of which is a validated theory and con-
veniently labeled a fact. Psychology teaches that the new-bom child has
to pass through this same tedious process in each of his senses, and how
much more difficult it must be for the child; for he has no developed
senses to help him form guesses looking toward a working analysis of
crude sensations, as had the man with the restored vision. Looking back
one step more, we see that the race must have gone through a process
infinitely slower and more tedious in evaluating its endless jumble of
theories into working shape before they became facts. The idea of a
cat as an automatic object was, then, a theory in the life of each indi-
vidual, just as well as of the race, much as it used to be a theory that
the earth was round, only it was unconscious and illy defined and had
to be tested out just as well.
Let us take another illustration. The average man would decline
to believe that the current in an ordinary electric lamp could change
to and fro some millions of times per second. Yet a physicist would
tell you that this very thing can quite easily be done and to him it is a
real truth. It is by far the most convenient view he can take of it in
order to understand what is going on in his experiments, and in order
to make it do things for him, as, for example, to produce the waves for
wireless telegraphy. Let us now examine a layman on his electrical facts.
We snap a button and a lamp lights. The light does not fit in with his
ideas of candle, kerosene, or gas. The wire-like loop is white hot. He
knows that mysterious cables and wires are laid in conduits in the street
and stmng around the house; that wires have always to lead to street
cars and motors before they can be made to run. The theory that the
energy that lights the lamp comes through the copper wire fits in with his
other facts. Still further, he has always heard that electricity is a
marvellous force that even very wise men do not understand. He does
not understand it. Excellent fit! So the theory that the power to
light comes through the wire becomes for him a fact. At the same
time, for the physicist it is a fact that the power does not come through
the wire, but through the ether surrounding the wire, and to show his
faith in his fact he gives us the wireless telegraph.
Let us once more restate it. For the pragmatist, the noise which
r
74 THE FORUM
disturbed us at nighty the cat, the shelf, the pantry, the electric lamp,
the wireless telegraph, are each theories that each individual has found
to work consistently among the mass of his other theory-facts.
A cynical writer has said that there are always three stages by which
a great principle wins its way to popular approval: First, we say it is
too absurd to merit consideration; second, that it is as old as the hills,
anyway, and is to be found either in the Bible, Greek philosophy, or
the Egyptian hieroglyphics; third, it is so axiomatic that we have always
believed it.
Pragmatism is just now passing from the first into the second stage,
and it is indicative of the political instinct of the pragmatists that they
foresaw the conditions and have tried to disarm criticism by not only
admitting that it is old, but claiming age as one of its virtues. They
insist that they are only using the common-sense method of thinking that
has been developing all down the ages, and trying to inject a little of
it into the regular schools of philosophy. So Professor James entitles
his last book Pragmatism, a New Name for an Old Way of Thinking.
And the foremost English pragmatist, Mr. Schiller, harks back to pre-
Socratic thought. He has translated a couple of papyri of the sophist
PhiloQous, which remind one of the clear psychological essays of James
himself.
In fact, Schiller would have us believe the much abused sophists to
have been upon the right track, but that the path to progress was barred
for nearly twenty centuries by the unfortunate advent of Plato.
Protagoras, the most eminent of the sophists, had made the maxim,
"Man is the measure of all things" the core of his teachings. This is
a most remarkable saying, being loaded with pragmatic meaning,
making the truth or falsity of all things, — fact, fancy, law, theory, the ab-
solute independence of the universe itself, — depend on how they fit into
man's mental make-up, the body of his opinions, beliefs, accepted theories,
facts. You will see that in the *^an is the measure of all things'* of
Protagoras is included most of the theory of knowledge which we have
been trying to develop, and which is now called pragmatism.
Now one of Plato's books he named Protagoras, and in it he por-
trayed Socrates as making the most elaborate arguments to overthrow
the whole philosophy which Protagoras built aroimd 'Tlan is the meas-
ure.'' To just what extent Socrates himself opposed Protagoras probably
cannot be said, for if I understand the matter aright, we have not a sin-
gle authenticated line of Socrates's writings. Only accounts of his sajrings
and teachings recorded by Plato and other contemporaries have come
SPECIAL ARTICLES 76
down to us, and there can be no doubt that Plato has made his Socrates
a mere mouthpiece to give his own ideas. In fact, some writers enclose
the name of Socrates in quotation marks; Perhaps Shakespeare's speech
of Mark Antony is about equally authentic historically.
Plato elaborated an ideal universe (not merely world) for himself,
and then tried to bridge the chasm between it and everyday life. Idealism
was the thing, and for him it would be prostituting his ideal to check it
by experiment. Perhaps it seemed more dignified, also, to discuss for
years the anatomical structure of an animal from an a priori basis, rather
than to dissect an animal and find out the facts. This is the very op-
posite of the scientific or pragmatic method.
What Schiller means by Plato's being a barrier to progress was that
his great dialectic genius allowed him to turn the whole Greek mind from
the path of science to his own "intellectually suicidal idealism.'' He says
that if ever a man was bom to be a scientific genius it was Aristotle, and
insinuates that the overshadowing genius of the teacher obfuscated the
mind of the pupil. A similar case occurred in historical geology in the
early years of the nineteenth century. Lamark had definitely formulated
the hypothesis of organic evolution. The attention taken by the over-
shadowing mind of Cuvier completely blocked progress until the advent
of Darwin's work half a century later ; only in the Greek world progress
was retarded twenty centuries instead of fifty years.
Plato's absolute idealism still dominates, or tyrannizes over common
thought, — according to one's point of view. No matter to what "ism" we
subscribe we are always assuming that there is such a thing as the "ab-
solutely absolute absolute," as' Professor Bawden calls it, an already-made-
to-order scheme of things. Schiller regards this tendency, which has
become nearly second nature to the most of men, as opposed to the open-
mindedness so necessary to progress, and he holds Plato responsible for
the condition.
Pragmatists claim that the change in thought regarding logic is a
step toward their attitude. Formal logic, as it came from the hands of
Aristotle, was the method of correct thinking, a gift from the gods.
But the view has changed. It is no longer considered an edict handed
down, but merely a descriptive subject, — what grammar is to language,
that logic is to thought. "Plural verbs follow plural subjects" is not an
absolute rule, but a general statement of a habit we observe in those
speakers and writers whose style we like. So the syllogism, in logic, is a
brief description of the most useful mode of thinking.
Pragmatists go further and maintain that "pure reason" and the
"purely intellectual" do not exist, that even the most severely logical
/
76 THE FORUM
thought is not independent of human will and human emotion. One of
James's first steps toward pragmatism was his The Will to Believe,
whose subject indicates this viewpoint.
Some views recently put forth by a group of French mathematicians
on the ultimate logical aspect of mathematical reasoning may make the
meaning clearer. Mathematics is always held to be the logical science, the
very citadel of logic. Consider in particular Euclidian geometry, the
geometry we all were taught. Euclid erected it on a base of postulates,
as they are technically called, assumptions, about points and lines, purely
arbitrary, though of common experience. The most famous is about
parallel lines. Now a Bussian mathematician, Lobachevski by name, has
developed an entirely different sort of geometry by taking all of Euclid's
postulates^ excepting the one on parallel lines, which he changed. His
geometry seems very strange and imcanny. We are used to the idea that
if we add up the three angles of a triangle we get exactly 180°. His
geometry makes it always less than 180°. Another peculiar property is
that according to his geometry we cannot have two objects the same shape
but different in size. That is, we could not make a table the same shape
as ihifk one, only twice as large in each dimension. But his geometry is
no whit less logical than that of Euclid.
Later, a celebrated German mathematician, Bieman, by another
change in the parallel postulate, developed another geometry, which dif-
fers from the Euclidian in the exactly opposite sense from that of
Lobachevski. For him, the angles of a triangle always add up to more
than 180°. Again, it is just as logical as Euclid. We may express the
relationships very crudely by saying that a people living under the reign
of Bieman's geometry would be on the outside of a sphere ; turn the sphere
inside out and there we should find Lobachevski's people, while we, who
believe in Euclid, would strike a balance and live on a flat or plane
surface.
Poincar6, who is the leading mathematician of France, sums up the
whole matter by saying that geometry is not true, it is not false, it
is merely convenient. To determine which geometry is ultimately true
would be like deciding which is the true method of counting money, dol-
lars and cents, or poimds and shillings; or like discussing which is the
true mode of locomotion, walking or automobiling. To generalize this,
mathematics is an exquisitely convenient system of jugglery. For the
pragmatist, then, mathematics is not a system of absolute immutable
truths, but a method of doing things, whose value to the race is incon-
ceivable. Carried to the subject of knowledge in general, the pragmatic
method is to regard action, accomplishment as the primordial stuff out
SPECIAL ARTICLES 77
of which and by which the world is to be explained. It adds a final step
to evolntionary thought in making truth itself a growing thing.
I am not sure that pragmatism is a philosophy. It seems to me more
like the antithesis of philosophy, in that it does away with the idea of
there being any absolute, immutable scheme of things, to discover which
is the business of philosophy; that it is like Pythagoras learning the
secrets of the Egyptian mysteries, the secret being that they had no se-
crets and that there was no mystery. It seems that it would drive the
last nail into the cofl5n gf the spirit of orthodoxy, orthodoxy in the broader
philosopliical sense as well as in the more narrow religious one.
Pragmatism inspires the feeling that it is as yet very incomplete, but
that it is a growing conception. In present times the standpoint was first
clearly stated by Mr. C. S. Peirce, in an article in the Popular Science
Monthly some thirty years ago, on "How to Make our Ideas Clcar.*^ It
is interesting to note that while Peirce still champions pragmatism, he
has recently stated that the doctrine to which it leads, of all meaning ly-
ing in action, appealed to him more at thirty than it does at sixty. The
idea lay dormant for twenty years when Professor William James took
it up, and he is now the acknowledged leader of the movement. He re-
signed his position last year in order to give his whole time to developing
and spreading its teachings. Professor Dewey, of Columbia, is another
leading exponent. Papini, in Italy, PoiQcar^, and a group of men of
science in France are carrying on propaganda. Schiller, in England, is
one of the most voluminous and polemic writers on the subject. Ostwald,
the chemist, and Mach, who holds a chair of the history of science, are
strongly influencing German thought along pragmatic lines.
The word pragmatism comes from the Greek "pragma," meaning
thing or business. It really has more of the force of action than our
word thing, being related to "prassein,*' meaning to do. In Hamlet* s
**The play^s the thing," a better shade of the meaning is expressed. Mr.
Schiller uses the word "humanism" instead of pragmatism. Probably
most people take more kindly to it, as pragmatism really has a rather
hard, materialistic sound. It ako well expresses the old epigram of
Protagoras, "Man is the measure of all things."
P. 0. Agnew.
f
LITERATUKE
THE CEISIS OF THE NOVEL IN FRANCE
(a propob of edouard rod's prefacb to alotsb yaiJrien)^
The novel considered here is not the one merely intended to provide
a few hours of pleasant reading by means of some sentimental stoiy told
possibly with a good sense of humor, but the noverwhieh discusses for the
general public, questions of general interest raised by the scientist, the
social economist, or the moralist; let us say the novel which, for the lay-
man, replaces treatises of philosophy — and discusses these questions of
course, conscientiously, not only with the obvious purpose of defending a
paradox in order to secure a large sale.
This serious novel has been cultivated with particularly great success
in France during the whole of the nineteenth century. Many, many
animated discussions of social problems — divorce, poverty, socialism,
feminism, and so forth — ^were inspired by such works of fiction. And
even for the most impei-sonal writers, the time came in their career, when
they could not resist the temptation of becoming didactic. Maupassant
would write his Inutile heauUy or his Vagabond, or his unfinished
Angelus; Marcel Pr6vost, his feministic novels; Zola ended in a fit of en-
thusiasm for a general social reform, as expressed in his EvangUes;
Bourget has more and more dropped the purely psychological novel in
order to defend with'passion traditional ideas in religion and ethics. . . .
And now, if one looks back on the two or three years just elapsed, the
fact will be realized that novels "i thfese" have become very scarce ; all of
a sudden the preaching has ceased almost completely among novelists that
count." Of course, let there be no misunderstanding : it would be a great
mistake to believe that recent novel writers ignore those social problems.
No, indeed 1 They realize as deeply as ever the existence of many puzzling
questions regarding modem life; but precisely the point is that they
only realize their existence ; they see them, they mention them, they even
discuss them, but they do not try any longer to solve them.
^Aloyae ValMn, Par Edouard Rod. Paris: Perrin, 1908.
This is true in part also of the drama. In the domain of the novel, we
ought perhaps to except in corpore women novelists; a good many of them are
still willing to be didactic; but intellectual women are seldom possessed with a
sense of reality; they live generally either fifty years back of their age, or fifty
yearH ahead; the result is that their influence on the intellectual development of
their time amounts practically to nothing.
LITERATURE 79
Those reflections came over us with peculiar force after turning the
last page of Bod's recent novel, Aloyse VaUrien. Tliis author may well
be taken as representative of the present state of mind among novelists.
Let us therefore consider more closely his case in the light of the volume
just mentioned.
Eod has always been one of our modem fiction writers who reflected
most. But just on account of that, because he seemed to realize better the
diflSculties of the problems before him, he did not come out with brilliant
theories, paradoxical standpoints, Utopian promises like others. The
reader was under the impression that this man was sounding the problems
of sorrow and happiness of humankind more deeply than many of his
colleagues; and if nothing definite had come from him yet, was not
the public authorized to expect from him, who had withheld plain talk
so long, perhaps a more practical hint for the future? — Weill it seems
not, for just now, when one might have believed that his turn had come,
this very man wrote, for his last novel, a short Preface — it is not two
pages long, in rather large types, but very significant coming at this
hour — to the efifect that no such thing was to be expected from him. After
studying modern conditions of life carefully, conscientiously, persistently,
he warns his readers that, should they ask him what message he
brought to his fellow-men, his answer would simply be: There is no
message I
This, at least, is what the writer reads between the lines of the Pref-
ace which has been so widely commented in France. It contains, in its
main part, a classification of Rod's novels as they appear to him at this
moment of his career. Besides a few "(Euvres de debut," he distinguishes
between "fitudes psychologiques,'' "fitudes passionnelles," and "fitudes
sociales." Begarding the first group, it is evident from the words used that
descriptions of mental attitudes are all they pretend to provide. Regard-
ing the "fitudes passionnelles,'' Bod has this to say: "It was not the
author's intention to make in any of them a "livre k th^se" . . . never
did he have anything in mind except to describe impartially the distur-
bances created in our lives by the cruel play of passions." In the "fitudefJ
sociales," he wishes to show that : "the perturbations pictured do not find
their causes in defects of social institutions and of laws, but in human
nature and the everlasting opposition between human instincts and the
requirements of social life."
It is always interesting to see how an author judges his own work;
but, of course, this classification is an afterthought, and, as in the case of
Balzac's "Com6die humaine," one cannot expect to find the novels fit in
r
go THE FOEUM
exactly. Everywhere there is overlapping. Ko novel by Sod belongs ex-
clusively to Number 1, 2, or 3.^
This^ however^ is secondary. The important thing, I repeat it, is that
Bod wishes ns to consider his work as absolutely negative from the moral
or social standpoint
Now the question that I should like to raise is this: Did Bod ori-
ginally start with the idea of writing merely descriptive novels, and really
without any desire to impress some practical truths on his reader's minds?
His Course a la mort, his Sens de la vie, for instance, can they really be
taken as not being attempts to offer, gloomy answers it may be, but still
answers to moral problems ? — ^The very titles say : no 1 Bod gave up, to be
sure, the conception of life described in the two famous novels. But, even
after that, can it be said with certainty that he made no other attempt to
enlighten morally ? One thing strikes us : If Bod, suddenly one day, feels
the necessity of telling us that his books contain no theory of life, does this
not imply, to say the least, that he himself considers that his books could
be read so as to convey a didactic impression? In case any intelligent
reader coidd see plainly that there exists nothing of the sort, what would
be the use of telling us? Therefore, is not the truth of the matter perhaps
that, after all, Bod had actually tried to find an answer to the problems of
life, but, finally, being dissatisfied vrith the results of his investigations,
wished to avoid disappointment to his readers, or preclude criticism, in
writing his Preface? Or let us express the same idea differently : Suppose
for the sake of argument, that Bod had f oimd an answer which was satis-
factory to him (as e.g., Zola did), would he have withheld it from us? —
Surely not 1 Thus when he says to-day : "No answer is to be found, only
problems stated in my novels,** does it not really mean that he found him-
self unable to give the right answer, and rather wished that his work be
considered as offering none at all ? — If this manner of understanding the
Preface is a correct one, this gives an entirely new bearing to the whole
discussion of it. But before we come to that, we must examine whether
the novel following the Preface will support our interpretation.
The story runs thus : Aloyse Val6rien, disappointed in her aspirations
^Not to speak of the fact that the classification itself is not satisfactory from
the logical point of view; the adjectives "psychologiques" and "passionnelles" are
not on the same plan; "passionnelles" novels are sure to be always "psycho-
logiques"; so that we ought to have something like: "£tudes psychologiques,
(a) passionnelles, and (6) non-passionnelles. As to the "fitudes sociales" similar
remarks can be made : it is clear that Rod could not write any "£tudes sociales"
which were not at the same time "psychologiques" or "passionnelles" — even both
— ^no more than he could do the reverse, write psychological novels which were
not social.
LITERATUBE gl
for a higher life in marriage^ loves a young artist. The latter^ in a duel,
kills the husband; but soon after he dies himself^ out of grief ^ while the
woman devotes her life entirely to the education of her daughter. People
never know the true story^ and admire the woman's faithfulness to the
memory of Yal^rien; they see in her acts of remorse^ acts of devotion.
One person^ however^ knows of the real love-tragedy^ Mazelaine, the friend
of the killed husband^ and the tutor of the littie girl Agn^. Mazelaine
has a son^ Florian^ but he takes good care that the two children shall meet
as littie as possible^ being afraid of hereditary dispositions in the daughter
of Aloyse. In fact^ Agnes' destiny is remarkably the same as her mother's;
she has a bourgeois sort of a husband^ and her soul is sighing for true
love^ and happiness of a higher kind. The man she loves^ and by whom
she is loved is precisely Mazelaine's son. Both parents now try every-
thing to prevent mishap; but even the most radical remedy^ the revelation
of Aloyse Yal6rien's true story^ only postpones the catastrophe. . . .
In the last scene^ the poor woman is there pondering hopelessly over right
or wrong; and the book ends on the word "fatality."
This short account shows already the position of a sceptic taken by
Bod. But^ this scepticism is not made out of resignation. On the con-
trary; never for one line does the author stop debating for us whether
those who yield to their passions were right or wrong. If he had made
up his mind in advance that everything was really "fatal/' and that
wrong and right were just mere words, what would be the meaning of this
everlasting tone of ^scussion? Logically nothing more was justified
than a plain objective psychological study. But no 1 Bod discusses ; only
he stops before pronouncing a verdict. For he cannot make up his mind
— ^this seems as clear as daylight.
Take Aloyse the chief heroine, has she remorses or not? The book will
not tell you, for it depends upon the exact meaning of the word remorse.
Is the woman's feeling, as described by Bod, not perhaps mere regret con-
cerning the social (distinct from moral) disorders that were brought
about in consequence of her love (because she was found out), and which
has such lasting effects, while her happiness did not last? or, is true re-
morse blended with fear lest her blood might condemn her daughter
fatally to a life as shattered as her own? She surely does not know.
But then, attght she to feel plain remorse? Bod is careful not to betray
his own sentiment about it. Suppose she could begin her life over again,
we ask naturally: would she, must she sacrifice even the few moments of
happiness that she could enjoy, to the requirements of a social order that
condemns her to unceasing sorrow? In other words: is the social order
that brings happiness to no one but can at the utmost prevent some un-
/
82 THE FOBUM
pleasant things^ more important than the disorder which actually carries
with it happiness even of short duration to two people ? Serious questions
after all, extremely real questions, which thinking people cannot afford to
ignore I — ^but, I repeat it, no answer comes from Bod's pen. Nothing but
interrogative marks after constantly repeated and sterile discussions.
Like Ck)meille in his dramas, Bod has planned his novel so that all
the chief characters are facing the same central problem, and are taking
different attitudes toward it. The extreme views are best shown in father
and son Mazelaine. The father ^'conservative by tradition, religious by
deep conviction, patriotic by instinct . . . considered faith, the Church,
property, family, indispensable things which could not even be discussed,
indispensable to collective life. . . . And this sort of intellectual an-
archism (of the new generation) frightened him like a poisonous product
of social decomposition. . . . TTour ideas are not goiag to give you any
help in life,' he said one day to his son during a long conversation." Or,
some other time : "Our old idea of duty has proved valuable, it can still
prove so. No theory can take its place. Its orders are simple and clear;
there is its advantage. . . .'' And the son replies: ''That is tme; your
ideas are good for social order; I believe in their social value. As to
their moral eflSciency: Nol'', and if those ideas, socially useful, are not
true in themselves — ^what th^? if there is something above social order,
have we no right to sacrifice social order to that higher thing — ^which is
perhaps love? "True love, which chooses, which lasts, which fills life,
which remains a sublime thing even in its worst manifestations, is a
phenomenon as rare as it is beautiful. So rare it is, father, that we can
dispense with taking it into account, in our discussions regarding good
and evil, duty and virtue \" elsewhere : "I have another doctrine than
yours: one must live first the whole life, and then, afterward, discuss
morality.''
And once more we ask : what does Bod himself think of all that? — ^He
cannot tell. On the one hand he is not willing to give up conscience,
duty, and so forth; he speaks almost with contempt of those theories of
"right of happiness,'' "duties toward oneself," "rights of the heart,"
"and other cliches popularized on the stage and in books." But on the
other hand again, he allows the stem Mazelaine himself, who has accom-
plished that "duty" which robs his beloved son of happiness, to re-
flect thus : "I have done my duty 1 . . . But this word duty with which
he tried to fill up his mind carried with it obscure scruples, persistent
doubts."
m * ^ ^ ^
Thus we have one of the keenest and clearest intelligences of our time
LITERATURE 33
who has discussed moral and social trafh in a sincere and disinterested
manner, and in the spirit of modem thought : this man ends by acknowl-
edging a failure, or at least giving up the idea of solving to his satisfac-
tion the vital problems which humankind has to face. Far from us the
idea of reproaching him for it; we realize too well through his books what
a complex task it is. But there is something at the same time pathetic
and great in the frank statement: '% like others, I have failed; only, I
prefer to say so.'* If only all would do the same who feel the same — and
surely there are many — ^it would avoid much shallow talk that is going on
simply owing to a lack of courage to admit a fact. The fact, I mean, that
there is no use trying over and over again to seek a new philosophy of life
in following beaten paths. We are tormented by the beautiful desire to
run toward the goal of justice and happiness to all. We need not give
that up ; but someone must come and start a new line of thought which
will enable us at last to satisfy the craving of modem conscience.
From what direction will the right suggestion come? — The answer
cannot possibly be given here. But a close study of some recent currents
of thoughts might possibly bring about some valuable revelation regard-
ing this important problem. Albert Bchinz.
AN INTERRUPTED PAN RESUMES HIS PIPING*
There arenH very many people who can sing out to us, ^'Come and
play !", with that right alluring utterance that makes us cast aside our
workaday concerns and fare forth again adventurous as in the wonder-years
before we left off trailing clouds of glory. When Tusitala died, and the
swarthy-skinned Samoans buried him beneath the wide and starry sky on
the summit of that mountain, aloof above the huge Pacific seas, whose pines
are evermore made musical by singing birds, it looked for a while as if
nobody was left to play with us. Of course there remained that Barrie
fellow who knows all the ducks in Kensington Gardens and agrees with
us that it is very foolish to grow up; but he obstinately made up his
mind to play only in a play-house thenceforward, instead of telling us
stories as of yore. Then along came a chap named Kenneth Grahame,
who had the tme miraculous voice and reminded us of the dream days
of our golden age. Surely he knew how to play ! He had not forgotten
that everything on earth is wonderful, that the meanest actuality is an
expression of some august reality, that the commonest action is romance,
that all work rightly undertaken is good fun, that hardship is adventure,
^The Wind in the Willows. By Kenneth Grahame. New York: Charles
Scriboer'B Sons. j
/
g4 "nXB FORUM
that sorrow is poetry, and that happiness is religion. He remembered
all the wise and simple truths that Wordsworth had forgotten before he
penned that tragic opening to the saddest of all odes. He was the
fellow for ns ; and we were just getting ready to wag our heads laughingly
at grave grown-nps — ^when something very dreadful happened.
A foi^tfnl and prosaic world remarked to Kennelh Grahame that
**Busine8s is business" — whatever that may mean. It told him solemnly
that he was Secretary of the Bank of England — as if that were a matter
of importance — and that it was his dniy to dictate letters about sums of
money. He knew better, of course; but that external and superfluous
insistence made him rather sad and weary. As a result, he let ten years
slip by without coming forth to play with us again. We were making
up our minds that we should never, never forgive him; but lol again
his dear call, ''Come and play!" — and like true children we forget the
intervening, desultory years, and follow him gaily again into the world
of glory and enchantment.
After all, it appears that he has not entirely wasted a drear decade
with workaday concerns. He has listened to the wind in the willows
and heard it as the fluting of an immemorial god. And now at last he
tells a tale once more, to remind us that every hour of the light and dark
is an unspeakably perfect miracle — ^lest we forget, lest we forget. . . .
The bother about most books is that they endeavor to explain away
the wonder of the world. We pick up a volume with the simple, sane con-
viction that water is a lucid, cool, and gliding liquid which miraculously
quenches thirst; and the author tells us, instead, that water is a chemical
compound of two parts of hydrogen with one of oxygen. With unques-
tioning contentedness we had spelt the friendly fluid W-A-T-E-R; and
we find ourselves complacently informed that we should henceforth spell
it H2O. This is both unsettling and annoying; for in place of our in-
herent and indisputable wisdom the author offers us merely a derived and
demonstrable knowledge. But the books of Kenneth Grahame may be
safely read, because they are haunted by the visionary gleam. He knows
things simply, like a child; and he loves them for the great reason that
they are wonderful.
The Wind in the Willows is a poem in praise of the glory that can
never really pass away from the earth, unless we allow ourselves to grow
up and forget — ^which, you may be sure, we shall never, never do, until
what time the birds shall cease to sing about the tomb of Tusitala. It
reveals anew the miracle of out-of-doors. The romance of the river, the
allurement of the open road, the tremulous ecstatic terrors of the wild
wood, the sad sweet tug of heart-strings by the sense of home, the poignant
LITERATURE 35
wander-longing, the amusement of adventnie, — all these moods of simple
wonderment are told and snng in its enchanting pages. The author sent
his sonl through the visible to spell the secret of onr earthly life; and
his sonl returned to him erelong with that deep message thus simply
phrased by Bobert Brownings in his most serene of poems : —
All is beauty:
And knowing this, is love; and love is duty.
What further may be sought for or declared?
Because of a pitiable tendency to degeneration in our speech, many
lofty words, like homely, for example, have taken on a mean and vulgar
connotation. Another word which thus has suffered is the magic adjec-
tive amateur. In the original and undefiled sense of the word, Mr.
Grahame^s work is worthy mainly because it is irradiated by the spirit
of the amateur. He writes because he loves to : he is too child-like and
playful to subside into the mere professional man of letters. The Wind
in the Willows is fun to read because the author wrote it for fun. It
ranges through all the moods of natural enjoyment: it is humorous and
beautiful, it combines satire with sentiment, it is serious and jocund. An
uproarious chapter, which satirizes the modem subservience to the latest
fad, is followed by a chapter in which, mystically, we are brought face to
face with the very God of out-of-doors. Mr. Grahame talks in whatever
mood most enchants him at the time : his range is as various and as free
as the aeolian breathing of the wind in the willows.
The actors in the present rambling narrative bear the names of ani-
mals; and a- certain inconsistency may be noted in the handling of them
At times they are endowed with human traits and used to satirize the
foibles of mankind; and at other times they are exhibited as animals in-
deed, and are used to reveal an infra-human view of life. This incon-
sistency is sometimes jarring; and as a consequence, the critic is moved
to set the book on a plane a little lower than that of the perfect exposi-
tions of the mood of wonder, — ^like Alice in Wonderland, for example.
Ten years ago, before his disquieting silence, Mr. Grahame demon-
strated that he held command of the most finished and perfected English
prose style that had been listened to since Stevenson's. The Wind in the
Willows is written in the same style, ripened and matured. To be a great
artist is, of course, a lesser thing than to be an undiscouragable child;
but it is reassuring to record that Mr. Grahame is the one as well as the
other. We need him, both to play with and to listen to. Those of us
who refuse to grow up and forget are banking On his future. May he fulfil
bi3 future^ even if he has to neglect his Bank I
Walter Clayton.
r
S6 THE FORUM
BECENT FICTION OF SOME IMPORTANCE
BY PHILIP TILLINGHAST
It is the fate of fiction, as the youngest product of literary evolution,
to he still the least stable of all the recognized forms, the most ambiguous
as to scope and purpose and method, the most prone to sudden and
startling innovations. Accordingly, while the importance of fiction as a
whole has long since passed beyond debatable grounds, it must be frankly
conceded that no other literary form approaches it in the production
of volumes which the student of letters may conveniently ignore. Poetry,
essays, criticism, are hedged around with certain saf^uards, seldom
finding their way into book form unless some one in the course of the
process believes to have discovered in them evidence of literary and artistic
worth — and the same may be said of published drama, thanks to a popu-
lar prejudice against reading plays. But so long as the dastic and
much-abused term, novel, continues to be stretched to cover both the
story that is literature and the story that is merely merchandise — ^the work
of Henry James and Maurice Hewlett, as well as of Marie Corelli or
Archibald Clavering Gunter — ^just so long the critic must hesitate to
single out any of the current fiction as a ^'novel of some importance,"
at least until he has rather carefully defined the principles upon which
its claims to such distinction are to be determined.
In the first place, then, it seems only just to demand that a novelist,
in order to make good his title to be recognized, even provisionally, as of
some importance, shall have contributed something new and original,
something quite his own, that seems likely to leave its mark, no matter
how slight, upon the fiction of the future. The innovation may be merely
some detail of technique, worked out in a new and daring manner; it
may be the creation of a new type of character; it may be the formula
of a new school of fiction; in any case, whether the novelist is a Conan
Doyle, with a subtle trick for improving the Poe detective story; or a
William J. Locke, with a Beloved Vagabond; or an Emile Zola, with a
Eougon-Macquart series and a new literary creed, we are justified in
bestowing conditionally the meed of praise conveyed by that none too
generous formula, "some importance." But at the same time, let us
carefiilly bear in mind that the wideness of appeal, the popular success,
the business profit of the transaction, is absolutely beside the question. From
the critical point of view, Jane Austen is a more significant figure in the
history of fiction than Sir Walter Scott, although she was scarcely read
by her contemporaries; Stendhal at least bears even honors with Balzac,
LITERATURE 87
although he had to wait half a century longer for recognition ; and to-day,
although George Barr McCutcheon often finds a place among the ''Six
Best Sellers," and Joseph Conrad does not, that does not alter the fact
that Lord Jim is a novel of some importance and that Beverly of Oraus-
tarh is not. Of course, if a novel of real artistic merit happens also to
contain the elements of popularity, so much the better, because its influ-
ence is thereby correspondingly increased; and its imitators will prob-
ably help to give permanence to the real merits, which perhaps they do
not perceive, along with the more superficial qualities, which they delib-
erately copy.
Furthermore, it does not follow, because a novelist has, after many
years, deservedly attained the foremost rank, that every volume he pro-
duces must necessarily be a novel of importance. It may very well
happen that even a Meredith or a Hardy, a Maupassant or a Bourget
may occasionally produce a volume which, although written with the
accustomed care and skill, has nothing vital to say, no new message, no
perceptible advance upon his earlier work. In fact, to the zealous student
of modern fiction there is apt to be more real profit from studying the
new writers than the veterans — for to the new writers belongs the boldness
of innovation; and it is seldom that a writer has ever attained general
recognition without his early stories having been recognized as really
important, by at least a few discerning critics.
With this definition of the adjective "important" kept carefully in
mind, it may be said unhesitatingly that a surprisingly small proportion
of the season's new fiction can make good its claim to recognition. Unde-
niably it has been what might be called an ''off-season" in novels. There
are, however, just a few volumes, which the average reader is quite likely
to miss, and which, nevertheless, to those interested in the technique of
fiction, offer some fairly valid reasons for consideration. And first
among these is When the Tide Turns, by Filson Young.* By those who
know him at all, Mr. Young will be remembered as the author of The
Sands of Pleasure, a rather shapeless and overgrown story, which never-
theless contained some wholesome philosophy of life, a few vivid pictures
of the Paris Latin Quarter, and a single character, a woman, whose
laughing, mocking voice simply refuses to be forgotten. While his new
volume does not show any notable gain in technique, it does give addi-
tional evidence of strong originality, keen vision, and an almost defiant
independence of judgment. The special theme of the book is the career
of an erratic young artist whose illustrations have suddenly taken
^When the Tide Tuma, By Filson Young. Boston: Dana, Estes and
Company.
gg THE FORUM
London by storm ; and then, because his whole creed is summed up in
the familiar catch words ''art for art's sake," he unintentionally runs
counter to established conventions both in his professional work and in
his private life — and the ebbing tide of popularity leaves him stranded.
With admirable impersonality, Mr. Young refrains from passing judg-
ment, but it would seem as though both in this and in his earlier novel
the particular philosophy he would preach is best summed up in the
words of one of his characters :
Nothing that a man does of his own choice does him any harm, provided
he sees all round it, and knows if it is good or bad. It is the knowing that mat-
ters, not the doing.
An equally unconventional attitude toward a familiar situation serves
to emphasize the slim little volume, The Oorgeous Isle^ which is Gertrude
Atherton's sole contribution to this year's fiction. The familiar situation
is this : a certain man has been steadily drinking himself to death. A
certain woman loves him well enough to run the risk of marrjring him
on the chance of bringing about a reformation. They are married ; he
keeps his word and his health is re-established. But it happens that
this man is a poet, who is able to give the world immortal verse, pro-
vided he continues the use of alcohol. The choice lies between a long
life of stagnation and a few brief years of meteoric glory. Has the
woman the right to rob the world of great literature for the sake of
one man's physical welfare? Mrs. Atherton's solution at least opens
up some interesting discussions.
Anthony Hope has not infrequently produced volumes of some impor-
tance, for he has an inborn tendency toward trying experiments. His
latest volume, The Or eat Miss Driver,^ is of interest to the professional
critic mainly on the side of its technique; because, whether consciously
or not, he has consistently applied Mr. Henry James' extreme method
of unity in point of view, and what is more, has done the trick so cleverly
that unless you are deliberately searching for it you will not notice that
from beginning to end he tells us absolutely nothing concerning the
Great Miss Driver save what is personally known to a single one of the
subordinate characters. But the book achieves one other thing of more
general interest. In the character of Jennie Driver it creates a type
new to fiction — the type of woman so greedy of adulation and of power
that she cannot bear to lose the homage of even the most despicable
^The Gorgeous Isle. By Gertrude Atherton. New York: Doubleday, Page
and Company.
*The Great Miss Driver, By Anthony Hope. New York: The McClure
Company.
LrrERATURE g9
of men; who rather than sacrifice any part of her social sway allows
herself to insnlt publicly the only man she loves; and then when it is too
late to make atonement to him achieves a vengeance on the little world
she moves in so complete and lasting that it will go down to history.
The Great Miss Driver is likely to be definitely placed as the best of
Anthony Hope's serions efforts.
The Immortal Moment^ by May Sinclair, is another of those books
whose importance will be most appreciated by the reader with a keen
eye for careful technique. There is nothing original in the underlying
plot. A woman whose mode of life has for years placed her beyond the
pale of society suddenly through the connivance of chance wins the
sincere love and respect of a good man, who, in ignorance of her past,
offers her marriage. As it happens, she also loves sincerely; and she is
so hungry for peace and happiness and the shelter of a home that she
might have kept up the deception had not the man's first wife left him
a child. But because she feels herself unfit to play the role of mother
to this child, she attains what Miss Sinclair calls her Immortal Moment,
in which, having told him the truth, she takes her life. And this is
absolutely all there is to the plot. The importance of the book lies in
the rare artistry of its construction. The setting is a fashionable hotel
on the Continent, the woman is shown to us in quite the casual way in
which we might make the acquaintance of any fellow-tourist on a sum-
mer's jaunt through Europe. We catch stray glimpses of her in the
hotel corridor, in the dining-room, out in the public streets ; we overhear
the curious gossip about her, admiring, envious, malicious by turns. But
who and what she really is we have no better way of knowing than had
the man himself whose whole happiness in life was to hinge upon this
knowledge. And because of this very perfect piece of technique, The Im-
mortal Moment must remain a book of some importance to all makers
of fiction who are striving after a similar method of construction.
There is one more recent book which deserves a brief word of com-
mendation as offering the claim of some importance to the readers as well
as to the writers of novels — Friendship Village,^ by Zona Gale. Struc-
turally, it is hardly a novel at all, merely a series of episodes bound
together by the loosest of threads — and yet the book leaves upon you much
that same sense of unity of impression that one gets by actually living month
after month in some small, remote New England town where all your
^The Immortal Moment. By May Sinclair. New York: Doubleday, Page
and Company
^Friendship Village, By Zona Gale. New York: The Ma^millan
Company.
Z'
90 THE FORUM
neighbors know more of you than you know of yourself — call it Friend-
ship Village or whatever other name best pleases you. There have been
many other writers who have attempted to portray New England village
types with the minute fidelity of a Jane Austen, but the work of
Mrs. Wilkins Freeman may be cited as typifying all these attempts by
the prevailing sombre colors of her pictures, the note of monotony and
hopelessness, the pervading strain of pessimism. Miss Gale's Friendship
Village J on the contrary, is as optimistic as the song of a skylark; yet
for all that she sees life none the less truly as it really is. It is fraught
with sympathetic understanding and cheerful friendliness and, what
is perhaps equally rare, it possesses a very genuine charm of style.
BACK FROM THE HOSPITAL
BY LEWIS WOETHINGTON SMITH
This is the face they let me bring you home.
The face you used to love and used to kiss.
Calling it beautiful. For that light word
I lost my soul. Is it a thing for smiles?
For you, I know — ^before these cheeks and lips
Had been so marked, you used to say my laugh
Was like a sun-burst. Now I dare not smile —
No, dare not. Hideous, more hideous —
You would not shrink from any vilest thing
More surely than the smile you used to call —
You were a lover once. I was half crazed
To be so loved, to have such flowers of speech
Fashioned for me, and now — oh, you may go.
May leave me here a scarred and wretched thing.
Just as you please. I know I could not be
More than a ghost beside the banquet board.
Where once, a month ago, if I had gone.
You would have been as proud as any knight
Presenting princes to his queen of love.
There have been women neither young nor fair
Whom still you would have taken and been glad.
Because, perhaps — ^I knew the time must come
When I should envy them their wit, their talk.
Their finer graces of the mind and heart.
LITERATURE 91
Such women^ women whom I used to see
With foolish pity. You who told me then
That being beautifid^ no more than that^
Was aU a woman's duty, art, or need.
You who so dared deceive me, tell me now
What shall a woman do who loses all.
Who starves her mind to nothing, shrivels up
The better instincts of her heart, and dwarfs
Her very nature, just because one man
Tells her be beautiful, be nothing else?
What then when in a little week, a day.
That beauty that was all slips like a mask
That hides a death's-head and she looks and sees
No friend, no lover ? Oh, you cannot know
How horrible, how terrible — I think
You would not sit there with that dull disgust.
Half tolerating what I suffer too.
Because you soon will laugh with all the gay,
Who ask but idly for your wife at home.
It is an hour before you need to dress.
Qive me that hour. Let us turn down the light.
In the half darkness, am I not the same?
My voice, the voice you praised, is just as low.
My eyes, — ^if you could see but just my eyes
Here in the shadows, — ^if your eyes could smile,
I think that they might glow as once they used.
Seeing the love you gave them. You forget.
Or would forget, with me forgetting too.
That what I am you made me. Years ago.
Before my life had felt the touch of yours,
I dreamed of things, I had some thoughts worth while.
And something of the glory of the world.
With all God meant that we should be and do.
Held me at times as in a trance of fear.
Of fear and joy and wonder and resolve.
You never knew, of course you could not know;
But I remember once, a night with stars.
When the great world was sleeping like a babe,
We walked, Jerome and I, across a marsh.
Along a causeway, while the water oozed
r
92 THE FORUM
In little puddles^ where we saw the heavens
A strange sweet beauty in the nniddy pools.
We had been talking — no, that let me keep;
But I remember when we reached the end
We tamed and looked and saw a thousand lights
There in the city. Something held us both,
A hush in that immensity of space.
The deep, still darkneRS and the souls on souls
Enwrapped within it^ life within a pall.
And something seemed to catch me, bear me on
To those great wishes that the saints have felt
Before the sin and struggle, pain and doubt.
Through which the himian gropes to the divine.
I think, that night, if he had only dared, —
Ah, God^ if he had said the one great word.
And held me with a little mortal love
To all the immortalities I felt !
I should not then have flung myself away
And lost the things I was and might have been
For this mad life—if you could understand —
You do not care that I have empty hands.
That now, too, I must have an empty heart
Fed with the husks of kindness only felt
As something irksome. Going? Are you sure
You might not stay at home and not be missed?
I would not have you stay. Go, leave me, go I
If you can laugh, our common cup of joy
Is fuller, though the dregs are fdl my share.
Of course you would not leave me here alone.
If it were possible for me to go.
Or even possible for you to stay.
Why make apologies? Do I not know
The dull companionship I have to give?
Besides^ I need to think^ aad I must learn
To shape a new life for the old I lose.
I half conceive the part I have to play.
Because I know we need not talk of love
After this hour. That somehow makes me free
To gather up those threads of old intent
Too doubtfully drawn out^ and weave again
LITERATUBE 93
A something beautiful^ the thing I was,
The thing I might have been before you came^
As I dare still beiieye — ^and then^ and then —
You will not see^ you will not seem to care.
Some other woman with bold laughing eyes
And cheeks half red with blood below the rouge
And piled hair for the smiles to glow beneath^
Some woman with a breast as full and warm
And limbs as roundly splendid and a step
That springs as freely with as great a joy
And lips as bravely human with the pulse
Of singing life — ^and then these cheeks, these cheeks 1
You ought to pity me. I hate her now.
She should not dare be beautiful for you
When I have nothing, I who need so much.
Because you taught me how to ask and have.
And now, and now — of course I shall not ask
Or seem to care — how could I with this face?
Go; there are pretty women dressing, too.
Choosing the jewels for their round, white necks
That you may see them as they pause and pass
And love them idly, — ^all the evening through
Forgetting me, as if — ^there is no hell,
Ood could not make a hell beyond to-night
While I sit waiting in the quiet house
To catch your step — I should have died, have died
Bather than never hear you any morel
Tell me how beautiful I looked. There are —
I cannot tell how many — ^thousands, yes.
More beautiful, and you will praise them, too;
And I must know it, fed it, every hour,
And curse them every moment like a fiend
Shrieking in torments. Oh, these cheeks, these cheeks 1
I wish — ^if God could only make you blind.
You might forget — and I — these poor, scarred cheeks 1
No, leave the gas turned down and let me stay
Here in the darkness. You can face the glow.
Faultlessly dressed and faultless in yourself.
It is the darkness brings the truth to light;
It shuts away so many things untrue,
r
94 THE FORUM
So many mockeries, 8o many shows
That lure and trick the fancy to our hurt;
And after all — I think that makes it clear.
I needed this, I needed losing you
To find the good to which my eyes were blind
And would have been forever. Leave me, go.
Pour out your tinkling rill of compliment
To other women. While I sit and wait.
Find some one fairer; let your fancy fly
In brave disdain of bonds that hurt the flesh.
Call yourself free, and so becoming free.
Kiss the first fresh-lipped girl you meet and dare
Tell her the lies I could not disbelieve;
Make her believe them — then — the last hard truth —
Tell me you kissed her. So I, too, am free.
And out of freedom I shall dare aspire
To all I lost in girlhood, all I lost, —
It seems so far away, so wholly lost.
And nothing left me, nothing, — oh, these cheeks.
This loneliness, this being so afraid !
Lewis Worthington Smith,
Tiie F3rutn
February, 1909
AMERICAN POLITICS
THE OUTGOING OF PKESIDENT EOOSEVELTS
ADMINISTKATION
HBNBY LITCHFIELD WEST
Pbesident Booseyslt is going out of office amid turmoil and splutter.
Every day has its new sensation. Not since the time when Mr. Cleve-
land's second administration came to a close has the end of a Presidential
term been marked by so much excitement as exists at present. The
atmosphere, not alone of the national capital, but of the whole country,
is surcharged with political electricity. The President, standing well out
in the center of the stage, makes it evident that he is to be President
until the last moment of his administration. His words, his actions, his
commands, are, after all, the prime factors in the Lively experiences of the
past few weeks.
When on the fourth of next March, President Boosevelt lays down his
cares and responsibilities, one of the most remarkable and interesting
chapters in American political history will be finished.
Important For seven eventful years, Mr. Boosevelt has administered
Laws the affairs of the nation as its chief executive and during
Secured ^jr^i tijne he has impressed himself upon the country
with more force and individuality than has been
equalled in many years. His administration has been marked by extreme
aggressiveness. His active and perceptive mind has intuitively, not to
say impulsively, grasped the thing desired and his positive, determined
character has secured accomplishment. It is no exaggeration to say that
until his successor was actually chosen, he dominated Congress. If he
wanted legal regulation of the railroads, Congress enacted the requisite
Permisnon to republish oHides is reserved
gg THE FORUM
laws; if he appealed for a larger navy and especially for additional battle-
ships^ Congress supplied the demand; if he asked for an employers'
liability law. Congress handed it to him on a silver platter; and when he
gave notice that a law affording elasticity as well as stability to the cur-
rency must be given to the coimtry. Congress acted with prompt acquies-
cence. It is true that jiist at the present time there is a different feeling
in Congress; but none the less, the veiy ezistenoe of the present antago-
nistic sentiment only emphasizes the opposite attitude which was manifest
as long as Mr. Boosevelt was the occupant of the White House for an
imcertain length of time.
It is, indeed, a matter of no little interest to recall, now that the
administration is drawing to a close, how closely Congress has fol-
lowed the recommendations of the President. The railroad rate law, the
employers* liability law and the currency law have already been men-
tioned. It was upon his suggestion, too, that the Department of Com-
merce and Labor was created, a department which has already taken
foremost rank among the executive branches of the Government. He was
an earnest advocate of the pure food bill and it was due to him that
more effective national control was given to the beef packing industiy.
He urged, almost from the very beginning of his administration, the
passage of a law, now upon the statute books, which would prohibit the
contributions of corporations to the campaign expenses of any party; and
his appeal for the publicity of campaign receipts and expenditures has
resulted in the establishment of a custom that wiU not be ignored by any
political organization in the future. He has asked, as a matter of course,
for some legislation which has not yet been enacted, such as an inheritance
and income tax and a postal savings bank system, but the record of his
achievement in securing the enactment of laws which he especially advo-
cated IB unequalled in any previous administration. The fact that at this
late day he has encountered some opposition in Congress only emphasizes
the great results which have been accomplished in the past.
It would be impossible within the limits of a brief article to deal fully
with the details of an administration so filled with multitudinous activities
as the seven years during which Mr. Boosevelt has been
The Versatility ^ *^® White House. If there is one thing which, more
of the than another, impresses itself upon the observer it is the
President enormous amount of work which the President has f otmd
time to do. Speeches on innumerable topics, important
state documents, letters on varied subjects — ^all these have demonstrated
his untiring industry in the matter of written and spoken utterance.
AMERICAN POLITICS 97
These, however, have been a small part of the almost inexhaustible record.
Take, for instance, the settlement of the coal strike — ^an inspiration which
led him to create a commission which dealt successfully with a menacing
situation. His proposal to settle the Japanese-Bussian War was another
stroke of genius, elevating him in a single hour from the position of a
national ruler to that of an international arbitrator. His versatility of
interest has been bewildering. At one minute he is o£E to Panama, to
inspect personally the progress of an enterprise which he transformed
from a dream into a reality, and the next he is organizing a commission
to determine whether the housing conditions of the poor in the national
capital can be improved. N"o task was too great to deter him, no detail too
small to escape his attention. It was due to his prompt and effective
co-operation that the cable across the Pacific Ocean is to-day an accom-
plished fact, and it is equally true that if it were not for him the
fourth-class postmasters would stiU be outside of the protection of the
civil service. While the memory of the conference of the governors at
the White House to consider the conservation of our natural resources is
still fresh in the public mind, he has undertaken, through another con-
ference, to secure better treatment for dependent children. While these
agencies are industriously engaged, another commission is investigating
the conditions of the farmer with the view of devising means for the
alleviation of agricultural conditions. Meanwhile the work which perti-
nently attaches to the position of President has not been neglected. There
have been investigations into the organization and conduct of tEe execu-
tive departments and there has been infused into oflScial life a sense of
responsibilily and conscientiousness hitherto unknown.
The President's fertile brain and perceptive mind have been supple-
mented by a physical condition which has been kept in perfect trim by
constant exercise. In the entire seven years of strenuous
Value of existence he has not known a single day of illness. If
Perfect it had not been for this rugged and iron-like constitu-
Healtfa tion he would have long since succumbed to the tremen-
dous drafts made upon his vitality. Even as it is, the
wonder is that he has endured the strain. His daily routine would soon
exhaust a man of average physical calibre. Prom the moment he entered
his office in the morning until the hour for luncheon there would be an
innumerable stream of callers, each discussing with him a subject of
importance, while the luncheon simply afforded an opportunity to transfer
the consideration of grave questions from the office to the dining-room.
More work was then followed by a ride of many miles on horseback, while
/
98 THE FORUM
the after-dinner hours were made the oocaaion for lengthy conferences
impracticable dnring the bnsj moments of daylight or for the preparation
of speeches or messages which required careful thought. Incessant, per-
sistent labor has been the secret of the President's achievements.
Some of these days, when a competent historian writes the review of
President Booserelf s administration^ he must, perforce, emphasize the
sturdy health of the President as a most important factor in the results
achieved by the administration. The President has never been compelled
to waver in the steadfastness of his purpose because of bodily ailments.
His natural tenacity and courage have not been weakened by introspective
consideration of his physical frame. In other words, he has been able
always to bring to the consideration of his work a mind untrammelled by
bodily ills. To this perfection of physical condition he has added a re-
sourceful and active mind, together with a temperament whidi lacked
neither firmness nor courage, a combination certain to produce great
results.
While the diversities of the President's mind have been as varied as
the range of human thought, two important subjects have especially
engrossed his attention. The first is the attitude of the
Attitude Federal Government toward corporations which enjoyed
Toward monopolistic control of public necessities, and the second
Corporations jg ^jj^ adjustment of the problems arising from the rela-
tions of capital and labor. His initial message to Con-
gress dealt largely with the regulation of the railroads and, particularly,
the abolition of railroad rebates, a system which gave undue advantage
to the already greatly favored corporation. ''Above all else," said Mr.
Boosevelt, in one of his messages, *Sve must strive to keep the highways
of commerce open to all on equal terms, and to do this it is necessary to
put a complete stop to all rebates." This was the keynote of his position
in the matter of discriminative charges. His language regarding ''those
big corporations commonly doing an interstate business, often with ten-
dency to monopoly, which are popularly known as trusts," was very clear
and emphatic. To quote his own words, he drew the line against mis-
conduct, not against wealth. He admitted the inviolability of property
but still insisted that society had the right to regulate the exercise of the
artificial powers which it confers upon the owners of property, under the
name of corporate franchises, in such a way as to prevent the misuse of
those powers. "Corporations, and especially combinations of corpora-
tions," he said, "should be managed under public regulation. Experience
has shown that under our system of government the necessary supervision
AMERICAN POLITIGS gg
cannot be obtained by State action. It must therefore be achieved by
national action/* He disclaimed any hostility to corporations, but asserted
that the evil in them should be eliminated and that they should be so
handled as to subserve the public good. It was the first time in the
history of our country that such sentiments had issued from the White
House, and throughout the seven years of his administration Mr. Boose-
velt has hewn steadily to the line.
While perhaps the President did not at any time specifically state the
reasons which actuated him in the course which he has pursued, there is
no doubt that he realized the danger which might threaten the nation
if some curb was not placed upon all-powerful, selfish and aggrandizing^
corporations. There is no doubt that this was the foundation of his
action. No one who has observed the drift of events during the past two
decades can fail to believe that there was a basis for the belief that unless
these monopolies were forced to respect the power of the people they would
become unbearable. Socialism and discontent were growing in the land.
High prices for necessaries of life, due to the formation of trusts, were
adding to the burdens of the poor. It needed some one with a wise fore-
sight and unshaken courage to see this drift and check it. There was
danger, of course, that the President's position would be misconstrued and
that he would be charged with demagoguery; and there was the absolute
certainty that he would arouse the antagonism of the great and wealthy
interests which sought to control. The result, however, has fully justified
his course. The trusts have learned that they must obey the law and
that the rights of the people must be respected. The enormous popular
vote cast for Mr. Eoosevelt in 1904 and the demand for his further re-
nomination evidenced the appreciation in which he was held by the masses.
It is also interesting and significant that his successor was elected by an
overwhelming majority largely because he announced early in the cam-
paign that he would carry out the policies which Mr. Boosevelt had
inaugurated.
It is still too early to view accurately the effect of Mr. Eoosevelt^s in-
sistent demand for the regulation of monopolistic corporations. He cer-
tainly averted possible dangers ; he brought the trusts to a realizing sense
of their limitations under the laws ; and he weakened the strangle hold
which the trusts had upon the public. If he has done nothing else, this
much is great achievement.
No other President, too, has been so fearless in his treatment of the
relations between capital and labor. He has handled the question without
gloves, stating his convictions at all times with great emphasis. "Or-
r
■^QQ THE FORUM
ganized capital and organized labor alike/* he said in a message to
the Congress, "should remember that in the long run the interest of each
must be brought into harmony with the interest of the
Capital general public; and the conduct of each must conform
and to the fundamental rules of obedience to the law, of in-
Labor dividual freedom, and of justice and fair dealing toward
all. . . . Every employer, every wage-worker, must be
guaranteed his liberty and his right to do as he likes with his property
or his labor so long as he does not infringe upon the rights of others/'
Nor did the President preach and fail to practise. The opportunity to
put his ideas into execution presented itself when the question of the
employment of a non-union printer became an issue in the Government
printing office. This may seem a minor matter; but it should be remem-
bered that the Government printing office, the largest institution of its
kind in the world, has always been the citadel of unionism and it took
considerable nerve to attack organized labor in its great stronghold. The
President did not hesitate. ^There is no objection,'* he said, "to em-
ployees of the Government forming or belonging to unions; but the Gov-
ernment can neither discriminate for nor discriminate against non-union
men who are in its employment, or who seek to be employed tmder it/*
This was a new doctrine and it made the "open-shop" possible.
On the other hand, the President's earnest sympathy with the wage-
worker was made manifest whenever possible. He has treated the subject
exhaustively in all of his messages to Congress. He has urged a larger
share of ownership by employees of railroads, mills and factories. He
has contended for provision for worn out and crippled worMngmen, for
the prohibition of child labor, the diminution of woman labor and the
shortening of hours for all mechanical labor. The employers* liability
bill which he urged upon Congress was the direct result of his eloquent
appeals. He has shown his interest in the workingman, when that
workingman obeyed the law and respected the rights of others; for the
workingman who did neither he had no regard whatever. When the
history of this administration comes to be written, therefore, the utter-
ances and the actions of President Boosevelt in relation to capital and
labor will form a most interesting chapter and wUl be f oxmd to have
created a new era in our political existence.
If, therefore, in the last days of the administration differences between
the President and the Congress should have unfortunately arisen, the fact
remains that for seven years the executive and the legislative branches of
the Government have striven hand in hand for the social and material
AMEKICAN POLITICS 101
betferment of the American people. This is the record that will stand.
Disputes oyer the actions of secret seryioe^ abstract questions as to the
right of the Senate to demand certain reasons for executive action — ^all
these and other troublesome and conflicting matters will be forgotten when
the great results which have been accomplished are still potent factors in
our national life.
Henry Litchfield West.
SONG PEOM THE GAEDEITEB^S LODGE
(Ehine Valley)
BT HERMANN HAOEDORN
Web, pretiy jewels have I three.
Frolicking under the chestnut tree.
Two are my diamonds, one my pearl —
Those are my boys and this my girl.
My oldest shall be a sergeant tall
With a walk and a beard like a general;
And an arm for his king and a heart for a wench.
And an itch in his bones to stick the French.
My second shall learn the ways of peace,
Of spreading bloom and field^s increase.
Of spade and hoe and clod and seed.
Of dropping fruit and clinging weed.
Not much he'll know of war and fame —
But every bud he'll call by name.
Oh, and the youngest, oh, my pride,
'Tis she will stay at her mothers side.
With broom and kettle and rag and pan
Till the good Lord send her a gardener-man.
And a lodge and children two or three
Frolicking under a chestnut tree.
Hermann Hagedom.
r
SPECIAL AKTICLES
THE BALKAN CRISIS AND THE MACEDONIAN QUESTION
BT NOBMAN DWIQHT HABBIS
(Professor of European Diplomatic History, Northwestern University)
ViCTOB Hugo once remarked that when a person was killed in France,
it was called murder. But when fifty thousand people were massacred
in the Ottoman Empire, it was called a question. For over four centuries
the Turk has had his foot on European soil and his rule has been considered
a disgrace to the civilized world; yet it is still a "question** whether he
will permanently reform or be forced out of Europe altogether.
By the trealy of Calowitz in 1699 definite limits were set to the Sul-
tanas possessions in Southeastern Europe. They then reached from the
river Dnieper to the Adriatic Sea, and from Belgrade on the Danube and
the Transylvanian Alps to the southern confines of Greece. Since those
days the European powers have been steadily forcing the Turks back-
ward toward the Bosphorus.
Greece secured its independence in 1829 and the Ottoman dominions
were reduced to the region known as the '^Balkans.** This stretches from
the Black to the Adriatic Sea, and from the lower Danube, the Transyl-
vanian moimtains and the river Pruth to the northern boundary of
Greece and the iEgean Sea. It occupies an area of 196,712 square miles
— slightly less than that of Spaia and more than the combined size of the
States of Minnesota, Iowa and Wisconsin. Its position on the highway be-
tween Europe and Asia is unique. Possessing considerable natural wealth,
an extended coast-line, and excellent harbors withia easy reach of those
of Russia, Italy, Asia Minor and Africa, there is no reason why it should
not have become, long ere this, one of the great commercial centres of
Europe, if its peoples had had a fair chance.
But it has been the battle-field of the nations. And, like the more
familiar examples of Germany, Italy and Poland, it has suffered for cen-
turies from invasion, from the ambition of European powers, from the
local differences and animosities of its inhabitants, and from constant and
deliberate misrule and oppression. It has been the last portion of Europe
to receive the blessings of modem constitutional self-government, peace
and an enlightened internal development — all but ill-fated ''Macedonia."
The remarkable development along commercial, industrial and politi-
SPECIAL ARTICLES 103
cal lines in Germany and Italy is well known. But the equally astonish-
ing progress, during the same period, in those Balkan states whose inde-
pendence was recognized in 1878, has been little noticed by the world at
large.
Boumania was the first to secure local autonomy as a state. And this
not at the hands of the European Concert, but rather in spite of the
wishes of the prime movers in Near-Eastern politics. By the treaty of
1856 the provinces of Moldavia and Wallachia were given separately the
administration of their own affairs under Turkish suzerainty. They
requested the privilege of forming a united government, but the powers
in a conference at London voted against it. In 1859, however, the two
districts elected the same person — Colonel Couza — as governor; and in
1862 the joint administration was quietly consummated. Prince Charles
of HohenzoUem-Sismaringen was chosen nder upon the forced retire-
ment of Couza in 1866 ; and the kingdom of Boumania created, though
not oflScially recognized till 1878.
Under the sane and efficient rule of King Charles, the country has
made a noteworthy advance along all lines. With an area about equal to
that of Louisiana and a population of 6,500,000, its yearly budget now
approximates $41,667,000. In 1905 its exports amounted to $76,184,000
and imports to $56,256,000. Besides a national militia, a standing army
of 65,000 men and an annual war budget of $7,500,000 are maintained.
The army can readily be raised to a war-footing of 350,000 men.
There are 1,831 miles of railway, 4,523 miles of telegraph, and 17,200
miles of telephone now in operation. An important commercial port has
been established at Constantza ; and great intelligence has been shown in
the development of forestry preserves, agricultural and mining resources,
and in the protection of petroleum and other industrial interests.
Boumania — economically and politically — ^is now the leading state in
the Balkans; and her citizens, of whom 92.5 per cent, are Boumans, out-
rank the other peoples of that district in general culture and intelligence.
Her foreign policy — ^uniformly moderate, peaceful and consistent — ^has
been a constant factor in her success. Although hindered at times by
Bussian intrigue, her statesmen have always maintained a dignified, con-
servative attitude. They have courted successfully the friendship of their
neighbors and deserve the confidence of all the European states.
Early in the nineteenth century Servia began fighting valiantly under
Kara George and Milosch for her freedom; but it was not until 1856 that
her people actually acquired liberty of worship, of trade and of self-govern-
ment. Complete independence was accorded her in 1878; and in 1881
Servia became a constitutional kingdom under Milan I. The unscrupu-
104
THE FOBUM
Ions ambition and inherent personal weakness of her rulers, notably
Milan I, who set np an absolute monarchy in 1883, and Alexander II, who
with his intriguing consort — ^Draga — ^was assassinated in 1903, seriously
retarded the development of the coimtry. The intrigues of ambitious
neighbors like Austria have increased the diflBculties and the general con-
fusion.
JNTevertheless, a constant improvement in conditions has been notice-
able; and, since the accession of the more conservative Peter I, Elara-
georgevich, a consistent and enlightened policy is rapidly bringing Servia
to the forefront. This is due more to the intelligent management of the
present prime minister, Nicholas Pachitch, and his colleagues, than to the
royal family.
Territorially Servia possesses about the combined area of Vermont
and New Hampshire. It has a population of 2,493,000, of whom
2,298,000 are Serbs, and 96 per cent, of whom are members of the Greek
orthodox church. Since 1904 she has been out of debt and presents a
yearly budget of $18,100,000. Her army numbers 35,600 men, but it
can easily be raised to 160,000 in case of war. There are in active opera-
tion 394 miles of railway, 2,040 miles of telegraph, and 860 miles of tele-
phone wires.
Servians programme is one of peace and internal development. Her
interests and sympathies, however, bind her closely to the Greek Chris-
tians and Serbs of the Balkans. Her foreign policy centres about the pro-
tection and welfare of the great Serb peoples of Southeastern Europe,
of whom there are some 10,000,000 all told. Out of these Servia hopes
to create a "Greater Servia*' some day; but it will require the most
expert management on account of the local jealousies of the various
branches of ttie Serb family and the opposition of Austria. The latter
has been actively engaged for years in fighting this Serb propaganda, and
in crushing by economic and political means not only every move of her
own Slavs toward national autonomy, but also each advance of Servia in
the direction of internal development or national expansion. This is
but the continuation of the policy of Count Andrassy, who said to Lord
Salisbury upon the introduction of Austrian military administration
into Bosnia and Herzegovina in 1878 — ^''J'ai mis le pied sur la tSte du
serpent."
Little Montenegro — ^thc size of Porto Rico or slightly greater than
Yellowstone National Park — has enjoyed independence, too, since 1878,
although it was^ominally a free state for many years prior to that date.
Under its able prince, Nicholas, it has been as successfully administered
as any of its neighbors. To-day it is a progressive and prosperous com-
SPECIAL ABTICLES 105
mnnity; and its ruler enjoys the respect of all European rulers and
statesmen.
The terrible massacres of 1876 in Bulgaria and the Busso-Turkish
war of 1877 led to the establishment of a fourth independent community
in the Balkans. Its area was materially limited at first owing to the
mistaken policy of England, who thought the salvation of these Danube
peoples lay in a reformed Turkey rather than in a division of the region
among the Powers. Great Britain saved the Ottoman Empire and ad*
vanced her own interests by this action, but left European Turkey and
the Armenians practically at the mercy of the Sultan.
Prince Alexander of Battenberg was the first ruler of Bulgaria. He
was friendly to Bussia and supported by her officials in the early part of
his reign; but in 1883 he gave his people a constitutional government
and went over to the national party led by Stephen Stambulov. All
Bussian officials were replaced by native leaders and a genuine Bulgarian
revival took place. In 1855, Southern Bulgaria, known as Eastern Bou-
melia, was quietly annexed by popular vote. Servia alone actively opposed
the movement, but was badly defeated at Slivnitza. Oreat Britain came
to the aid of Bulgaria, and by skilful diplomacy kept the powers inactive
and secured the acquiescence of the Porte. This marked a new epoch in
the attitude of England toward the Near-Eastern question. Her change
of front is best described in the message of Sir B. Morier, English ambas-
sador at St. Petersburg, to Sir W. White at Constantinople — ^1f you can
help to build up these peoples into a bulwark of independent states and
thus screen the 'sick man* from the fury of the northern blast, for Qod's
sake do it.*'
Prince Alexander was kidnapped, however, at the instigation of Bua-
sian officials. Popular feeling was so pronounced against this action, that
he was speedily returned to his palace. The Bussian disfavor continuing
so great, he felt compelled to abdicate in 1886; and the present ruler,
Ferdinand of Saxe-Coburg, was chosen in his stead.
Ferdinand, though self-seeking and fond of pomp and display, is a
statesman of considerable ability. Under this rule the state has progressed
steadily and rapidly. It possesses an area of 38,080 square miles, a little
greater than Indiana or Portugal, and a population of over 4,000,000. Of
these five-sevenths are Bulgarians — ^a composite of Tartar and Slavic blood,
but an intelligent and industrious people. So thrifty have they become
and so extensively have the farms and landed estates passed into the hands
of the tillers of the soil, that Bulgaria has earned the title of the 'Teas-
ant State."
In the t^ years from 1895 to 1905 the exports of Bulgaria rose from
-^QQ THE FORUM
$15,537,200 to $29,592,000 and imports from $13,804,000 to $24,450,000
— ^nearly double in both instances. There are 972 miles of railway, 355
miles of telegraph, and 867 miles of telephone wires now in active service.
And Bulgaria possesses the largest and most efficient army in the Balkan
provinces. Its regular enrolment is about 64,000; but this can be readily
raised to a war footiog of 375,000 men. Her annual war-budget is
$5,000,000 and the entire national budget reaches a total of $45,400,000.
Bulgaria's foreign policy is conservative and peaceful. She desires
friendship with her neighbors and opportunities for internal development
and commercial expansion. She cannot ignore the demands of her com-
patriots in Macedonia; and she has large interests in that district. But
she can safely be relied upon to act with caution and conciliation, and not
to jeopardize her position by forcing an appeal to arms.
Thus four free and independent states have been successfully created
out of European Turkey in the latter half of the nineteenth century and
the territorial possessions of the Sultan in the Balkans reduced by nearly
two-thirds. This is primarily the result of the misrule of the Sublime
Porte — of the corruption under Abdul Hamid in particular — ^and of the
interference of the European powers. Yet it must be acknowledged that
the real success of the new states has been due to causes lying almost en-
tirely outside the sphere of activity of the European statesmen. Chief
among these was the fact that there existed within each of these Balkan
communities one homogeneous group of people bound together by ties of
blood, language and custom, who constituted 90 per cent, or over of the
entire population, and who could furnish a nucleus of resource and power
sufficient to ensure the success of a national organization. Such as the
Serbs of Servia, the Eoumans of Eoumania, and the Bulgars of Bulgaria.
To this, accompanied by the rapid growth of the spirit of nationaliiy
among these peoples, more than to anything else, is the salvation of the
Danube principalities to be attributed.
A second and hardly less important factor was the rise of gifted na-
tive leaders, like Prince Nicholas of Montenegro, Pachitch of Servia, and
Stambulov of Bulgaria, whose patriotism and devotion equals anything
Europe has ever seen, and who possessed constructive political ability of
a high order. The introduction of religious toleration removed one of the
most serious obstacles to reform — ^namely, the strife between the theolog-
ical sects of the Near-East, whose name is 'legion." National churches
were organized under their own heads, like the Bulgarian Exarch at Con-
stantinople and the Metropolitan of Servia at Belgrade, and their own
governing bodies. And a distinct separation of church and state fol-
lowed. In this way a free hand was secured for the new governments.
SPECIAL ARTICLES 107.
The transference of the lands of the excluded Turks to the peasant
farmers removed the chief difficulty in agrarian reform. And the aboli-
tion of the old Turkish methods of taxation and collection of revenues
opened the way for an enlightened financial regime and a progressive eco-
nomic development that have placed each state upon a sound basis.
The term '^Macedonia'' does not appear on modern maps, but is com-
monly used as a general name for the three Turkish vilayets of Salonika,
Monastir and Kossovo, lying between the districts of Adrianople and
Albania. For the purposes of this article, we will apply it to the whole
region in Europe stiU retained by the Sultan. Its total area, leaving out
Bosnia and Herzegovina, is 68,190 square miles, or a little less than the
state of Missouri. It is a district of considerable natural wealth and of
unrivalled commercial possibilities, with two ports of the first rank —
Constantinople and Salonika. It possesses one of the most cosmopolitan
populations in the world. Of the 6,000,000 inhabitants, 70 per cent are
Turks, Greeks and Albanians, and the remaining 30 per cent, includes
Serbs, Soumanians, Bulgarians, Italians, Armenians, Magyars, Gypsies,
Jews and Circassians. No one nationality constitutes more than 30 per
cent of the whole; and this lack of a determining element in the popula-
tion— one sufficiently powerful to assume the leadership and ensure an
independent organization for the district — ^is one of the main causes for
the failure thus far to solve the ^Ttfacedonian question.*'
Another serious difficulty lies in the racial antipathies and jealousies
of the resident nationalities — specially those who are related to the citi-
zens of the neighboring free states. The moment one attempts to secure
the ascendancy, the others begin to fight tooth and nail against it. When
Bulgaria permitted its people to aid the Macedonian revolutionists in
1903-4, Servian and Greek bands penetrated the country and as-
sisted the Turks in the devastation of the district and the suppression of
the revolt.
A third element in the problem is the religious situation and the
unique position of the great Metropolitan leaders. There are Greek,
Bulgarian, Latin and Armenian Christians, Mohammedans, Jews, and
other denominations, each under its particular religious head. The
Greeks enjoy the protection of his holiness, Joachim III, Patriarch of
Constantinople, and the Latins that of Pope Pius X at Home. The Bul-
garian Christians have their own Exarch at Constantinople, who repre-
sents their interests with the Sultan. The Armenians are divided into
two groups, one Roman Catholic and one Gregorian, with its own patri-
arch at Constantinople. And the Jews have their chief Rabbi, called
''Chacham-Baschi," living also in the Turkish capitol. All of these prel-
/
]^08 ^™^ FOKUM
ates have immense influence and considerable strength. Each mnst pro-
tect his own people; and none are willing to favor any movement which
would materially reduce their power or affect their position — such, for ex-
ample, as the Bulgarian Exarch might experience if the Bulgar Christians
of Macedonia were removed from his immediate jurisdiction. Then no
group of one religious persuasion wishes to see one of another belief
placed over them. The experience of the Christians under Mohammedan
rule has made them all particularly sensitive on this point.
Yet it would be quite possible to surmount successfully these difBcul-
ties, if the fourth obstacle to the complete pacification and reorganiza-
tion of Macedonia were once removed. There are a number of states —
large and small — ^vitally interested in this question, without whose co-
operation and consent no solution is possible. Eveiy effort to secure
unity upon a sane plan and to promote an intelligent and effective execu-
tion of such a scheme has, to date, resulted in signal failure. Individual
interests have uniformly triumphed over general advantages and the real
issues at stake. The greater powers have steadily refused to permit the
smaller, like Bulgaria and Boumania, to participate actively in the gen-
eral discussions concerning a settlement of the problem. And well-in-
tentioned propositions, like the "Muerzsteg programme'* of 1903, have
received only a tardy recognition and a support utterly inadequate to in-
sure a genuine trial.
Bussia, the recognized leader of the Slavs and the self-appointed pro-
tector of the Greek Christians, has constantly permitted her own inter-
ests to dictate her Balkan policy. Defeated in her plan of reaching
around the Black Sea to Constantinople by the session of the Drobuja to
Boumania in 1878 and the creation of greater Bulgaria in 1885, she still
hopes for some solution that will leave her with a predominance of power
aroimd the Bosphorus. She is unwilling either to let any other strong
power take over the administration of European Turkey or to see power-
ful states created out of that district. Nor is she specially pleased to see
a revived Turkish rule. The weaker the "sick man*' becomes and the
more quarrelsome and petty the states of the Balkans remain, the nearer
her goal appears and the easier it becomes to advance her own interests.
The recent active co-operation of Bussia with England in favor of a con-
gress of the powers indicates that she is at present in a more conciliatory
mood. It is quite probable that she can be counted upon to support the
movement for a free and self-governing Macedonia.
England, sitting like a watch-dog at Cyprus, insists that no settlement
shall be made detrimental to her Egyptian and Asiatic interests. Yet her
statesmen have been in the main true friends of the much abused rest-
SPECIAL ARTICLES 109
dents of the Danube principalities, if we except their serious blunder of
1878. In recent years her influence has been steadily and consistently
used for the protection and assistance of the new Balkan states. She is
opposed to the occupation of European Turkey and Constantinople by any
Continental state, but would receive with favor any other reasonable
proposition for the reorganization and government of Macedonia, that
takes into full consideration the liberties, rights and welfare of the in-
habitants of that province.
For twenty years Germany has occupied the place in the advisory
councils of the Porte that England filled so successfully during a large
part of the nineteenth century. She has used her advantage well and to-
day possesses more commercial advantages and industrial rights in both
Asiatic and European Turkey than any other power. Germany's trade
with these regions is so important and her financial interests so extensive
that she is certain to oppose strenuously any change in the Sultan's
domains that shall seriously affect her position or that of her merchants.
Italy, also, is vitally interested in the problem. She would gladly
acquire once more a portion of Dalmatia and Albania, which belonged to
the Eepublic of Venice for several centuries, and where many Italian
speaking people live to-day. In addition, her royal family is closely
related to those of Montenegro and Servia and she has large commercial
interests in the Balkans.
Bulgaria pursues steadily a peace policy. Even during the strenuous
days of the Macedonian revolt of 1902-4 she remained officially neutral;
'and in the present crisis her conciliatory spirit gives evidence of
her peaceful intentions. It is necessary to her own security and pros-
perity. Yet she has her dream of a ''Greater Bulgaria," looks with
longing eyes on Macedonia, and watches every move there with the
profoundest interest.
Greece is very ambitious. She desires not only to regain that portion
of Thessaly lost to Turkey by the foolish rising of 1898, but also puts
forth large claims to Macedonia on the ground of old traditions and the
present numerous Greek population of that region. She has permitted
for years the intrigues of her citizens in the Balkans for this very end ;
the commercial and financial investments of her citizens in Macedonia
are most extensive and continually increasing.
To Servia, expansion into Macedonia seems an imperative necessity
and an outlet on the sea practically indispensable, if it is to escape the
dominance of Austria and to work out successfully its own future and
that of the Serbs of Southeastern Europe. Austria has furthered the
discord between king and people, and hindered the economic develop-
±±Q THE FORUM
ment by high tariflfs on Servian goods and exorbitant charges on the
Salonika railway, in order to keep the country poor and cause the idtimate
failure of the Government. So serious has the situation become that
Servia is even now considering the construction of a railroad from
Kragooyevatz across the Kapaonic mountains to Prisrend and thence via
Skodra to San Giovanni di Medua on the Adriatic.
Austria-Hungary^s general policy is one of territorial recompense in
the Balkans for her losses in Germany and Italy by the wars of 1859 and
1866. This was the basis of a secret understanding of the Emperors of
Eussia, Germany and Austria in 1872; and the recent incorporation of
Bosnia and Herzegovina in her domains is but an incident in the work-
ing out of this programme. Austria would accordingly welcome an ex-
tension of her possessions southwards through Albania and Macedonia
to the important port of Salonika; and she has already constructed a rail-
way from the main Budapest — Constantinople line at Nisch to that port
via Uskub.
It is claimed that the ambition of the heir presumptive to the throne,
Archduke Francis Ferdinand, is to make Austria the leading Slav power
of Europe and to give all the Slav peoples of Southeastern Europe a
chance to work out their destinies under her protection. Such a policy
is fraught with grave danger. In the first place Austria, while having
made a fair start in the direction of constitutional rule, has not yet solved
successfully her own governmental problems. Is it wise to take on more
and greater burdens, before the fundamental difiSculties to a satisfactory
administration have been removed ? In the second place, the Slavic ele^
ments in the kingdom have always been a serious menace and a constant
soutce of trouble to the Government. Can she afford, before she has
discovered a satisfactory system for the management of these peoples, to
embarrass herself greatly with more of the same kind?
Undoubtedly any large increase of the Slav element will mean the
ultimate loss of the German portion of Austria. For those who have thus
far enjoyed a monopoly of power in Austrian affairs will not relinquish
it easily or gracefully; and to them union with Germany is preferable to
Slav domination or even equalily. Is the Hapsburg family ready for
such a sacrifice? And are they sure the compensations are real and can
be made permanent?
The only practical course open for Austria, if she insists upon ex-
pansion in the southeast, is through the organization of a federal state
that shall be largely Slav in composition and be erected with Hungary
as a nucleus. The Hungarians are natural politicians, can safely be
relied upon as leaders, and already possess immense commercial interests
SPECIAL AKTICLE8 HI
in all the Balkan states. If Austria-Hungary had to-day a federal
organization with a workable scheme for the incorporation of new terri-
tory, like the United States, the problem would be an easy one. But she
is not a federal state or a united people. And, if the greatest care is not
perpetually exercised, the prophecy of Prince Gortschakov at the Berlin
congress, ''The tomb of Austria is in the Balkans,'^ may become a fatal
realiiy.
Now that there is a promise of a new European congress on the Balkan
situation, one inevitably asks the question — ^Is there any real hope that
the "Macedonian question" will be definitely settled ? Judging from the
events of the past five years, the prospects of a satisfactory and permanent
solution of this knotty problem are brighter than ever before. It will
be remembered how the terrible atrocities in Macedonia in 1903-4
aroused the statesmen of Europe, and how the now famous 'Memo-
randum" of Bulgaria — ^an appalling indictment of Turkish rule in
Macedonia — ^wfts perused in every council-chamber on the Continent.
After considerable delay and under heavy pressure from the other powers,
Austria and Eussia produced the "Vienna programme" in February,^
1903; and, through the persistent efforts of England and France, the
more workable plan — ^known as the "Muerzsteg programme" — ^was evolved
in October of the same year. This latter included reforms in finance, in
civil government, in taxation and in the gendarmerie, and a European
commission of control. Yet it failed completely for lack of serious sup-
port by its framers, and the opposition of the Sultan and Germany. It
has been demonstrated that the loss of life during 1905-6 was almost as
great as in 1902-3.
Matters dragged on until the summer of 1908, when Sir Edward Grey
and M. Ivolski put forward an energetic plan for the pacification of
Macedonia. This embraced, among other provisions, the restoration of
peace and security through the medium of a large military force com-
manded by Turks but assisted by European oflScers, the organization of
the district into an independent province under the control of the Porte,
and the creation of a new civil administration based upon principles em-
ployed in all modem governments.
In Jtdy, before this programme could be put into operation, the revo-
lution occurred in Turkey followed by the triumph of the "Young Turk^^
party and the restoration of the constitution. The leaders of the new
movement promised reform and local autonomy in Macedonia; and at
the urgent request of their representatives at Monastir, the final adjust-
ment was pos^oned till after the opening of the Turkish parliament in
December. All recent reports are a convincing proof that this is no
112 THE FORUM
temporary upheaval to be followed by the usual relapse into a corrupt
and despotic rule, but a reform movement of intelligence and strength,
sure to attain a large success and permanence. And the National As-
sembly now in session enjoys the confidence of the whole people, and is
taking hold on the problems of state with enthusiasm and intelligence.
The leaders are just as concerned to promote security and good govern-
ment in the local units, as they are to preserve the integrity of the empire
and to maintain constitutional government.
The annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina by Austria, the declaration
of independence by Bulgaria, and the vote* of Crete for union with
Greece, in September, complicated the situation. But there is no good
reason why these events should seriously impede the solution of the
Macedonian problem; and in the proposed European congress on the
Near-Eastern question, the powers should take active steps to co-operate
with Turkey and render this movement a prompt success. A more worthy
work could hardly be imagined. There is at present no other practical
way to reorganize successfully European Turkey except through an
^ autonomous Macedonia under the suzerainty of the Porte. It does not
endanger the integrity of the Sultan's empire, or affect materially any
individual interests of the Balkan states. Yet, at the same time, it will
afford protection for life and property, and give the people full scope for
the development of self-government. To facilitate the reconstruction,
local officials might be imported from neutral states like Switzerland and
Holland, and financial and civil advisers be furnished the administration
by the powers. Troops and money could be loaned if necessary.
In the event of the failure of the reform movement in Turkey, or if,
after a careful and thorough experiment, it is found that the inhabitants
of Macedonia are incapable of self-government, there will remain but one
thing for the European Concert to do. The district should be purchased
from Turkey at a reasonable figure and divided among the neighboring
states of Montenegro, Servia, Bulgaria and Greece, on an equitable basis
in accord with the number of persons in Macedonia racially related to
the peoples of those states. The burden of the Turkish indemnity would,
of course, be assumed by the Balkan governments.
In any case the whole of the Balkans should be permanently neutral-
ized. All the states should be placed, like Switzerland and Belgium,
under the protection of the powers, so they can neither make war nor be
attacked. The time has now come for such an action. None of the
greater states will ever consent to one of their number taking possession
of the region. Economically neutralization would be one of the greatest
blessings to the young and weak Balkan kingdoms. And why should the
SPECIAL ARTICLES 113
district not form a 'Tjufifer state'' between Austria, Eussia and Turkey,
as Switzeriand does between the nations of Western Europe? With the
integrity and independence of the Danube states guaranteed, and the co-
operation of a reformed Turkey and the powers in Macedonia an accom-
plished fact, all fear of war would vanish and the old bugbear of the
"terrible Turk'* would disappear from Europe forever.
Norman DwigJit Harris,
FRENCH POETRY AND ENGLISH READERS
* BY BRANDEE MATTHEWS
In the leisurely eighteenth century, the age of ample prose, when
every man seemed to have for his own use all the time there was and
when he was ever ready to bestow a full share of eternity upon the
elaboration of lucubrations called forth by any topic that chanced to
float within reach — ^in those easy-going days, before the virtues of the
strenuous life had been insistently proclaimed, the full and proper title*
for the casual suggestions which are here to be set down, might shape
itself into something not unlike this: "On a certain Ineffectiveness of
French Poetry for those Readers who have English as their Mother-
tongue/'
Probably few of us would be prepared to dispute the statement that a
very large proportion of those whose native speech is English and who
yet have acquired more or less facility in reading other languages, both
ancient and modern, find French poetry less satisfying than the poetry
of the Greeks and of the Latins, of the Germans and of the Italians.
Some of us feel this so strongly that we are even a little surprised to
discover that the French themselves do not feel it at all, and that they
are not prepared to admit any inferiority of their poets or any inadequacy
of their language as a medium for poetry. It has seemed to some
English critics almost a wilful freakishness, a personal perversity, when
they beheld a French critic as clear-eyed and as open-minded
as Taine contrasting Alfred Tennyson and Alfred de Musset, and
then concluding with the declaration that after all he preferred
Musset.
Brunetifere was unable to discover any sufficient reason for the fact
he admitted ungrudgingly, that although French prose conquered all the
nations of Europe, French poetry had been unable to win a firm foothold
outside of the confines of its own language. That the French are the
/
114
THE FORUM
modem masters of prose is rmdeniable. Why are they not also the masters
of poetry ? Why is it that a list of the chief French authors, whether this
roll-call contain a dozen names, or a score, or a hundred, would be illumi-
nated chiefly by the names of prose-writers, whereas a corresponding list
of authors using the English language would shine with a very large
preponderance of the poets?
Perhaps it is not begging the question to lay on the French language
the blame for certain of the deficiencies that we think we detect in
French poetry. Perhaps it is not unprofitable to remind ourselves that a
language must of necessity resemble the people who speak it and who
have moulded it instinctiyely to their own necessities and to their own
natures. "There is room for a very interesting work, which should lay^
open the connection between the languages and the manners of nations^
— so wrote Gibbon in one of the frequent notes of his monumental his-
tory, the first volume of which appeared in the year when the English-
speaking race was split into two nations. The 'Very interesting work"
which the great historian suggested has not been written in all this
century and a quarter; but its theme has attracted the attention of many
an acute critic; and it would be easy to collect a sheaf of suggestions
likely to be useful to the investigator who shall undertake the task. For
example, the Danish scholar. Professor Jespersen, thinks that English is
essentially a virile speech, having about it little that is feminine or
childish. Lowell was unwittingly commenting on the race that speaks
German when he declared that he found in that language "sentences in
which one sets sail like an admiral with sealed orders, not knowing where
he is going to till he is in mid-ocean."
In the language of the French we find the qualities which character-
ize the people — ^the social instinct, the logic, the regard for proportion and
order, the inherited Latin tradition — aU characteristics which make for
prose and for the most pellucid prose, although some of them are more
or less hostile to poetry, and especially to lyric poetry. On the other hand,
a certain lack of restraint discoverable in the writings of the stock that
speaks English, an excessive individualism, a superabundant energy, that
transmutes itself easily into imagination — ^these are all qualities which
make for poetry, and more particularly for lyric poetry. It is true also
that these are qualities which make against prose in its finest perfection
of artistic ease and of persuasive sanity. It is not by accident tiiat
English literature has had characteristic figures like Carlyle with his
humorous contortions and like Euskin with his ill-balanced vagaries.
Nor is it by chance only that French literature in the same century had
Sainte-Beuve and Benan and Taine, deialing soberly with themes closely
SPECIAL ARTICLES 116
akin to those which the two British writers chose to handle vehemently
and violently.
It was a Frenchman, Eivarol, who declared that what was not clear
was not French. It was another Frenchman, Benan, who asserted that
his fellow-countrymen cared to express only what was clear, although
"the most important truths, those relating to the transformation of life,
are not clear; one perceives them only in a kind of half-light.** Clarity
is an essential of the best prose; but the subtlest and most suggestive
poetry can get along without it. In some of Shelley's loveliest lyrics, for
instance, the logic is a little doubtful, and the exact meaning is not
beyond dispute. The very precision of the French vocabulary, with its
sharp-edged words, bare of all penumbra, makes it difficult for those who
have to use it as a medium for poetry to express the vaguer phases of
emotion in the formative moods of feeling. Here seems to be a superiority
of the Teutonic tongues in that they can render more readily the saturated
solution of emotion before it is precipitated, whereas the various inheritors
of the Latin language can reproduce rather the sharp transparency of
the crystal.
A friend of mine, when he was a student at Berlin, was advised by one
of his instructors to get the French translation of that professor's great
work, as this was easier to understand than the German original. And
this same friend came to the reading of the psychologic studies of a dis-
tinguished French critic after he had been steeping himself in German
philosophy, and he discovered that the French author was struggling
valiantly to express in his own tongue the rather nebulous ideas absorbed
from this same German philosophy. In the transference of the German
thought into the French language there was a gain in clarity, no doubt,
but there was also the sacrifice of a hazy but far-reaching suggestiveness,
which might be an agent of imaginative stimulation. And what is poetry,
after all, but another expression of philosophy? As Whitney once
phrased it, 'TVords are not the exact models of ideas; they are merely
signs for ideas, at whose significance we arrive as well as we can." If the
words of a language are sharply precise, they can best signify those ideas
which have a precision equally acute. It was Eivarol, again, who declared
that in French '*the imagination of the poet is arrested also by the circum-
spect genius of the language.''
Not only is the French language sharper than any one of the several
Teutonic tongues— and thereby better fitted for exposition, for the con-
veying of information, for criticism, for logic, for science, and in general
for all the purposes of prose — ^but it is also less musical, less accented,
more monotonoiw, It is ^ nasal speech, an4 it? ton^ ftre Jes§ b^^i^tiful
116
THE FOROM
than those of its Latin sisters, Italian and Spanish, studded with open
vowels — ^less beautiful really than those of English when our Northern
language is handled by a master of sounds, who knows how to evoke the
melody of which it is capable. No French poet has been able to make
his words sing themselves into the memory more certainly than Victor
Hugo; and yet even that virtuoso of the lyric has left us few stanzas
sustained by the haunting music which lifts up many of the lines of
Tennyson. Even Poe, whose equipment is meagre enough, even if his
accomplishment is surprising, can on occasion achieve a mastery of mere
sound, denied to Hugo, despite all his marvellous native gift and all his
consummate craftsmanship in compelling words to do his bidding.
French verse seems to be curiously dependent on its rhymes for its
structure. In his little treatise on the art of versification, Th^dore de
Banville was frank in avowing this and in setting forth plainly the im-
portance of the principle. It is significant that blank verse has never
been able to establish itself in French poetry; and French prose is there-
fore free from those passages of unconscious blank verse such as Dickens
fell into when he wanted to emphasize the pathos of his sentimental
deathbeds. Without its pairs of words the poetry of the French is barely
distinguishable from prose. It is hardly too much to say that French
verse robbed of its rhyme ceases to exist. And as a result the poets of
France have centred their attention on rhyme, and have forced from it
possibilities unattained as yet by the poets who use the accented Teutonic
tongues. No dexterous manipulator of English has yet extracted from
his rhymes alone the sustaining effects which Heredia wrought into his
lustrous sonnets by the artful choice and contrast of his terminal sylla-
bles. Nor has any lyrist of our language ever juggled with aflSuent rhymes
as Victor Hugo was wont to do, dazzling the eyes of the reader with the
incomparable brilliance of his selection.
The French poets are forced to rely largely on their rhymes because
their language is in a way monotonous — ^if not absolutely unaccentual.
There is no denying that it is far less accentual than German or English.
Nisard declared that French was unique among all languages in that it
was wholly without accent; and he even maintained that this deficiency
helped to fit the language for universal use, since accent was what was
most individual in human speech. And here we have another reason why
French poetry is less satisfying to our ears, attuned to the bolder rh3rthmic
swing of the Teutonic metres. Here, indeed, is an obvious disability of
the French, which puts their poets at an indisputable disadvantage.
Emotion is rhythmic, just as all nature is also. The instinctive cries of
primitive man are undulatory. The spontaneous expression of feeling
SPECIAL ARTICLES 117
rises and falls, like the waves of the sea. There is a cadence in the croon-
ing of the mother over her babe asleep in the cradle, as there is also in
the bitter wailing of the tribe over its dead. In so far as the French
language has a barrenness of accent, and a fundamental monotony of
syllabic utterance, and in so far as it tends to require its lyrists to
abstain from stress, from undulation, it is deprived of an emotional
resource, of a method of appeal to the soul, through the ear, which has
been potent in poetry since the f ar-ofif ages when primitive man had not
yet discovered the utility of prose.
Of course, it is unfair to accept Nisard's assertion that the French
language is absolutely without accent, without any rhythm at all. But
it is fair enough to suggest that the rhythmic variety of French is far
more subtle, far less obvious, than that existing in any of the Teutonic
tongues. In giving up a more plainly marked accent, a rhythm per-
ceptible to the ear accustomed to the bolder alternations of stress more
easily measured in our own speech, the French have shorn their language
of an emotional instrument, of a physical advantage, preserved for the
use of the poets of almost every modem tongue. Sometimes the French
insist on the equality of every syllable in a line, and sometimes they
profess to be able to detect a play of accent imperceptible to the foreign
ear habituated to the marching rhythm of other languages. For the
most part, their own writers have failed to see how large this loss is, in
thus surrendering what was the birthright of primitive man. Unfamiliar
with this emotional instrument, they do not perceive that its absence
enfeebles the appeal which their poetry makes on foreign ears. Naturally
enough, they themselves do not miss that which they have never possessed.
It was the wise Mommsen who called Ciceronianism a problem which
is part of "that greater mystery of human nature — ^language and the effect
of language on the mind.'^ And it was the shrewd Bagehot who asserted
that there was '^a certain intimate essence of national meaning which is
untransmutable as good poetry. Dry thoughts are cosmopolitan, but the
delicate associations of language which express character, the traits of
speech which mark the man, differ in every tongue, so that there are not
even cumbrous circumlocutions that are equivalent in another." This is
one of the reasons why the best translation can never be more than an
inferior substitute for the original. No one can really feel the inner
meaning of a poem until he has conquered an insight into the language
in which it sang itself into being. And even when the reader has gained
this essential mastery of the foreign speech, it remains foreign after all ;
it can never be more than an academic accomplishment ; it can never make
the intimate appeal of the songs originally phrased in the mother-tongue.
118 THE FORUM
As Sidney Lanier declared poetically, every word of a poem "is like the
bright head of a comet drawing behind it a less luminous train of vague
associations, which are associations only to those who have used such
words from infancy/^
Th'-* remark of Lanier^s may help us to grasp at a remote reason why
Hugo and Musset are less satisfying than Goethe or Heine to us who have
English for our native speech — a reason to be seized only when we recall
the lasting effects of the impress of French upon English when oui
language was yet in its plastic youth. The Norman conquest brought
about a mingling in our tongue of French words with the ruder vocables
of Anglo-Saxon origin; and English has been free ever since to enrich
itself from a twofold store, taking from the Romance stock with the
right hand and from the Teutonic with the left, with the result that its
vocabulary is probably ampler now than that of any other language.
It is true, of course, that there is a large infusion of Romance words
in modem German speech, as there is also a large infusion of Teutonic
words in modern French speech; but neither French nor German has a
double vocabulary for ordinary use as English has. Now, if we classify
the English words in ordinary use into two groups, the first embracing
what may be called the primary words, those which we use instinctively
in the hour of need and at all other moments of tense emotion, and the
second embracing the secondary words, those with which we are equally
familiar, no doubt, but which do not rise as readily to our lips — if we
undertake this classification we know in advance that the larger propor-
tion of the primary words will belong to the Teutonic stock, and that a
larger proportion of the secondary words will belong to the Romance
stock. As Herbert Spencer recorded, "a child's vocabulary is almost
wholly Saxon." And the same acute observer also declared that "the
earliest learnt and of tenest used words will, other things being equal, call
up images with less loss of time and energy than their later learnt
synonyms."
To call up images is a chief purpose of the poet; and he will succeed
in English partly in proportion to his choice of the primary words,
chiefly of Teutonic descent, and to liis skill in extracting from them, all
their essential suggestion. When he prefers the secondary words, of
Romance origin mostly, he is likely to seem less direct, less vigorous, and
even less sincere. But if these verbal characteristics so impress us in the
Ijrrics of our own language, in all probability they will so impress us
also in the verses of foreign poets. So it is that we who have English for
our mother-tongue find in German poetry a free use of Teutonic terms
closely akin to our own primary words, and we cannot help finding in
SPECIAL ARTICLES 119
French poetry that Eomance vocabulary which recalls to us our own
secondary words, to us always more or less inferior in emotional sug-
gestion. Both in French and in German the poets are using words which
are primary to them, but in consequence of our double vocabulary only
the words of the German poets seem primary to us. The words of the
French poets must necessarily appear to us as secondary, that is to say, as
less direct, less vigorous, and even as less sincere than the words of the
German poets.
To say this, of course, is not to pass any ultimate condemnation on
French poetry, but only to explain one reason why it is less eflfective to
those who speak English than it is to those who speak Italian or Spanish.
To us the homely talk of the hearth, the stuff out of which the simplest
poetry is made, is largely Teutonic ; but when an inheritor of the Latins
handles this same stuff he cannot command other than Bomance vocables.
The French lyric which appears to us indirect and ineffective, simply be-
cause the poet must perforce employ words which seem to us secondary,
will be satisfying to a Frenchman, to, whom these same words are primary,
and to him it may appeal as a masterpiece of vigorous sincerity.
Many of those who are best fitted to appreciate the finer qualities of
French literature have always felt that there was a lack of fairness in
Matthew Amold^s trick of comparing poetical fragments in French and
in English to the obvious disadvantage of the foreign l3rrist. The victory
was a little too easy to be quite worth while ; and it failed to carry con-
viction even to those who were willing enough to admit that French poetry
did not satisfy them. Yet this French poetry does satisfy the capable and
accomplished critics of France, a land where criticism is cultivated as a
fine art. May not this divergence of opinion be due to two causes here
indicated? First, to the fact that French verse is far less rhythmic than
the verse of any of the Teutonic tongues and that, therefore, it is emotion-
ally feebler to us who are accustomed to the bolder beats of our own
stanzas ; and, second, to the fact that the French words most needed by
the poet seem to us who speak English secondary, less direct, and there-
fore less effective, although these very words are primary to the French
poet himself and to. his French readers. This second disadvantage applies
more particularly to the poetry of the simpler emotions. But the poetry
of a more sweeping imagination is also more or less unsatisfactory to us
because the marvellous clarity of the French language deprives the poet
who works in it of a power of indefinite suggestion possible to the poets
who have English or German or Greek for their mother-tongue.
It remains only to be noted that these two disadvantages of French
poetry in the ears of those who have English as their mother-tongue are
t
J20 THE FORUM
neither of them discoverable in Italian poetry or in Spanish — or at least
not discoverable to the same extent. In the first place, both these other
Eomance languages are rhymthic with accentual systems easily perceptible
to the ears attuned to Teutonic alternations of stress. And in the second
place, the Romance words in English are derived most of them directly
from the French, whereas the Italian and Spanish forms of the same
word are often so different from our secondary words that they need an
effort of perception and so evoke the primary emotions, rather than the
secondary, which are called forth by the corresponding French words. It
is true also that clarity is not the chief characteristic of either Italian or of
Spanish, as it is of French.
Brander Matthews.
LINCOLN'S ENGLISH
BY MONTGOMERY SCHUYLER
A WRITER or an orator who has once, if only once, become the spokes-
man of his people at a national crisis necessarily becomes interesting as
a master of his native speech. That feat, by the universal consent of the
American people, and with the assent of foreign critics, Abraham
Lincoln once performed. Of course, the speech at Gettysburg, which
has long ago taken its place among the ^^great little speeches" of the
English language, or of any language, is securely a classic. It
would be a waste of space to transcribe it. Everybody may be supposed
to be reprinting and reading it in this anniversary month of the cen-
tennial year. Nobody will be disputing that it is a masterpiece. In it,
Lincoln really "rose to the height of this great argument,'* — ^to continue
the language of the great rhetorician whose tercentenary preceded his
own centenary by two centuries and two months, — really asserted Eternal
Providence and justified the ways of God to men. Beading it over again
as coldly and critically as any American can, it seems very nearly as
impeccable as inspiring. There is only that one unlucky slip in the first
sentence, "our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new nation,"
with its necessary and impossible implication that the male is the par-
turient parent, to contradict or halt the else uninterrupted course of the
reader^s grateful and admiring assent.
The man who did the Gettysburg speech, one says, must have done
other things almost equally worthy of memory and celebration. And one
recalls, more or less vaguely, other "eloquent passages,*' other "purple
patches." One may be moved, as the present commentator has been
SPECIAL ARTICLES 121
moved, to go through all the published writings and speeches of the
author of the Gettysburg address, in the hope of finding other things
of tlie same rhetorical quality. This little study is a record of what such
a disinterested' inquirer finds.
The first thing he finds is that the eloquent passages are, truly,
purpurei pannL Every one of them, in the Horatian phrase,
adsuiiur. It is not merely a more elaborately embroidered piece of
the surrounding tissue. It is, truly, "sewed on." Let us make a col-
lection, by no means necessarily a "crazy-quilt," of these ornamental
patches. The collection of the ^'Messages of the Presidents" contains them
all. For neither the Lincoln-Douglas debates, nor yet any other utter-
ances of Lincoln before he was President, are in any danger of getting
into the school-readers as models of expression. The parting speech at
Springfield may be admitted as a partial exception. There is in fact a
great deal of human nature in the way in which the leading lawyer of
that then frontier community, who had gone daily in and out for a
quarter of a century before the neighbors to whom he was speaking, took
his leave of them to venture upon strange scenes and a new environment,
like a prairie Columbus embarking upon uncharted seas. Of human
nature, and of necessary pathos. But, while one derives this impression
from the parting speech, one recalls only one's impression, not the
ipsissima verba, the very words by which that impression had been
conveyed, as one would recall them if they had been uttered by a master
of language, as if the little speech were in the same class, for example,
with the little speech of Burke at Bristol, or the little speech of Emerson
at Manchester. From a re-reading of the Springfield speech one carries
away only the same confused recollection of something genial and human
which one brought to it. As to those Douglas debates, what the candid
reader finds in them is by no means rhetorical excellence. He can never
say of their author what Hallam said of Hooker: "So little is there of
vulgarity in his racy idiom." Rather the contrary. What the present-
day reader does find is arguing, arguing which is not only keen, but
candid. Now Douglas was keen — ^no debater of his generation more so.
But he was distinctly uncandid. When he was confronted by an equal,
or rather by a greater, clearness of perception, which not only vividly
brought out the shiftiness and trickiness of his oratory, but shamed
those qualities by confronting them with a disposition evidently equitable
and candid, it was the adversary who triumphed. It is no wonder that
Douglas lost his temper many times, Lincoln hardly once. Lincoln's
candor was in fact his chief asset in debate, as it had been his chief asset
in talking to Illinois juries. As whoever has much frequented courts of
122 ^''HE FORUM
justice muaj; have noticed, it is one of the most valuable assets a nisi
prius lawyer can possess. How strange so few jury lawyers should
cultivate it. It was recognized, by the end of 1858, all over Illinois, as
Lincoln's chief political asset. For "'Honest Old Abe'' did not merely
imply that Lincoln, in the judgment of his fellow^citizens, would not
steal money. It was a tribute to his equity and fair-mindedness as a
disputant. "Candid old Abe" was what Illinois, half a century ago,
really ''wished to say.'*
But let us examine the "purple patches." A President's message is
<x)mmon]y a mosaic, a thing of shreds and patches. Each head of depart-
ment is apt to be left to dictate the statements of fact and the recom-
mendations with regard to his department, and his own words are apt,
naturally, to be incorporated. But this practice is fatal to rhetorical
unity, to "style." Matthew Arnold says, very justiy, of British "Speeches
from the Throne" :
What is to be remarked is this — a speech from the throne falls essentially
within the sphere of rhetoric, it is one's sense- of rhetoric which has to fix its
tone and style, so a« to keep a certain note always sounding in it; in an English
speech from the throne, whatever its faults, this rhetorical note is always struck
and kept to.
Now this prolongation of a single rhetorical "note" is evidentiy out
of the question when the composition is a cento of the contributions of
heads of departments. And this was the case with most of Lincolh's
messages, as it is and perhaps must be the case with most Presidential
messages under our system. But it was not the case with Lincoln's first
inaugural. About the first draft of that it does not appear that he had
taken counsel of flesh and blood. He had written it out at Springfield,
and had brought it on to Washington, sending a few copies to those
whose coimsel he felt bound to invoke. Among these was Seward, who
seems to have imagined that he was the only coimsellor. The body of
the inaugural was a characteristically Lincolnian piece of fair and candid
argumentation, made almost astonishing by the circi^mstances. "Come,
let us reason together," he says to conmiunities which had already seceded
or were visibly on the edge of secession, and goes on to argue away their
apprehensions about his power or his disposition to interfere with slavery
wherever it already had a legal existence. Of course, his candor was not
so naif as it might seem. The argument was really addressed to the
border or uncommitted States, which in fact were held, but which would
assuredly have followed the Cotton States if the Government had come
under the direction of an advocate of immediate and unconditional
Abolition. But this is from our present purpose. That purpose is to
gPKCIAL ARTICLES 123
point out that the one ^'purple patch'^ in that inaugural^ the one passage
of which the casual reader is likely to retain any recollection^ the perora-
tion, was not Lincoln's at all, but Seward's. Yet those who recall it at
all will be apt to cite it to you as an example of Lincoln's eloquence.
Seward himself was perhaps the foremost dialectician and even more
clearly the foremost rhetorician of his party, a far better exemplar of the
use of the English language than, for example, Charles Sumner, with his
tropical and Corinthian rhetorical exuberance. Here is Seward's draft
for that peroration :
I close. We are not, we must not be, aliens or enemies, but fellow country-
men and brethren. Although pasHion has strained our bonds of affection too
hardly, they must not, I am sure they will nut, be broken. The mystic chords
which, proceeding from so many battlefields and so many patriot graves, pass
through all the hearts and all the hearths in this broad continent of ours will
yet again harmonize in their ancient music when breathed upon by the guardian
angel of the nation.
And here is Seward^s contribution, as retouched and adopted by Lin-
coln, and as it stands in the text of the First Inaugural :
I am loath to close. We are not enemies but friends. Though passion may
have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of
memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart
and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union,
when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.
Lincoln's version will be admitted to be an improvement. That "I
am loath to close," as who might say "let me plead with you yet awhile
longer," is a masterly rhetorical touch. At the same time his docility
as to the volunteered contribution to a performance with which he had
taken so much trouble, and about which he might have been expected to
cherish a paternal pride and sensitiveness, shows him to have been
without literary vanity. Which is admirable in its way, no doubt. But
as a symptom of what one may call the literary instinct? One recalls
Walter Bagehot's pregnant remark about Sir George Comewall Lewis
and the dulness of his writing :
He had not, indeed, the powers of a great literary artist; it was not in his
way to look at style as an alluring art. He wanted to express his opinion, and
cared for nothing else. He had no literary vanity; and without the vanity that
loves applause, few indeed cultivate the tact that gains applause.
Possibly it was Lincoln's docility in this question of mere form which
encouraged Seward's appointment of himself to the position of Mentor
to the uncouth Western Telemachus, and helped to bring about in him
the delusion that the pupil who had been so amenable in a matter of
124 THE FORUM
style would be equally amenable in things of substance. His undeception
was rapid and completey as has been especially shown by Mr. Eoths-
child in his study "Lincoln, Master of Men" And Seward's loyal ac-
ceptance of the actual situation — "The President is the best of us" —
is as creditable a fact as one knows or needs to know about the man who
had gone into the Cabinet with the general belief, which he shared, that
he was the leader of the Bepublican party and his successful competitor
for the Presidency but its figure-head.
The next of the messages is, of course, the message of July 4, 1861,
to the special session of Congress convoked to consider ways and means
for suppressing the insurrection. It is a lawyerlike message, much more
lawyerlike than literary. Part of its purport is to show that secession
had not been peaceable but aggressive, and that the firing on Fort Sumter
had been an improvoked act of war. Rhetorically considered, one has to
note that it abounds, as for that matter do all the state papers of its
author, in split infinitives. But one has also to note that the split
infinitive was by no means the anti-shibboleth in 1861 that it has come
to be in 1909. Not until McKinley's time could it be feigned, even so
plausibly as to invoke hilarity, that the President had invited a friend
to the White House to partake of a "split infinitive and soda.*^ There
was a locution in that special message which had been made the subject
of remonstrance in the Cabinet with tlie Presidential author, as infra dig.,
and the author had replied to the remonstrance that he thought
it would be understood as long as the message in which it was embodiied
concerned anybody. It was in truth rather temerarious for a President's
message, viz :
With rebellion thus sugar-coated they have been drugging the public mind of
their section for more than thirty years —
but we cannot fairly say of it that there was an overdose of "vulgarity"
in this "racy idiom .^' One's attention is rather concentrated on the
"pui-ple patch" which, as usual, was the "peroration" and which was in
these terms:
And having thus chosen our course, without guile and with pure purpose,
let ua renew our trust in God, and go forward without fear and with manly
hearts,
which, as was evident to more readers, perhaps, in 1861 than in 1909,
is a transcription, so literal as to be beyond the reproach of intended
plagiarism, from Longfellow's Hyperion: "Go forth to meet the
Shadowy Future without fear, and with a manly heart.^*
The First Annual Message (December 3, 1861) contains nothing to
SPECIAL ARTICLES 125
our present purpose. The bulk of it is given to a purely formal and
perfunctory recital of the operations of the Government, such as might
have been contributed by any heads of departments, or, for that matter,
by any well-informed clerks in the several departments, having neither
the reality nor the pretension of individual "style'^ in presentation. There
is no rhetorical peroration. The logical peroration is a highly character-
istic argument, most plainly Lincolnian, to show that the Confederacy
was reverting to aristocratic and feudal political ideals, and that the hope
of the oppressed and suppressed of all mankind lay in the triumph of
the Union arms. One can hardly read this calm argumentation without
wonder that it should have been so calm, that it should not anywhere have
been "touched with emotion" to some rhetorical glow.
And quite as great is one's wonder that the next of the important
Presidential deliverances, the Emancipation Proclamation itself, should
have preserved this pedestrian gait. For this also is as dry a recital as the
most technical of courts could have required or the most technical of
conveyancers have produced, of the exact scope and purport of the pre-
liminary and provisional proclamation of the previous September, to
which this one gave exactitude. There is, indeed, one rhetorical passage,
one "purple patch," the one paragraph which the memory of the ordinary
reader might ^nd memorable. And it is curious to note that, as the
one memorable passage of the inaugural should have been that applied by
Seward, so the one memorable passage of the Emancipation Proclamation
should have been that furnished by Salmon P. Chase. Here is the pas-
sage. To save space, the three words added by Lincoln to Chase's draft
are enclosed in the first parenthesis, and the ten words deleted from it
by Lincoln in the second :
And upon this act, sincerely believed to be an act of justice warranted by the
Constitution (upon military necessity), (and of duty demanded by the circum-
stances of the country) I invoke the considerate judgment of mankind and the
gracious favor of Almighty God.
Without doubt the deletion is an improvement in all senses. With-
out doubt the interjected reservation was politically and legally demanded.
But, rhetorically, how awkward it is, how careless of form, how careless
of the popular impression the proclamation was meant to produce. In-
deed, how destructive the awkward interjection might have been, had
public opinion been more evenly balanced and not, by that time, been
exerting an irresistible pressure upon the President. As to Lincoln's
magnanimity, this acceptance of Chase's emendation to the Emancipation
Proclamation speaks even more emphatically than his acceptance of
Seward's emendation to the first Inaugural. For from the day when
126 *1IE FoitUM
Chase entered the Cabinet to the day when he left it to take the Chief
Justiceship, he was a thorn in the side of his chief. Nor was his chief's
magnanimity repaid in his case, as it was in the case of Seward, by a
corresponding magnanimity on his side. At any rate, the absence of
"literary vanity" on the part of Lincoln had here its most crucial
exhibition.
The Second Annual Message (December, 1862) consists, as to two-
thirds of it, like the first, in the "bald and unconvincing narratives" of
the operations of the Government in its several departments. The last
third is quite unmistakably the individual work of the President, being,
in fact, an argument in favor of his scheme of emancipation with com-
pensation to loyal owners. It has all the frankness and candor which
marked his parts in forensic struggles and political debates. But here,
again, the "peroration," instead of being the culmination and summary
of the reasoning of the argument, heightened into rhetorical loftiness by
the reasoner's own emotion, lifted "to the height of that great argument,"
is extraneous, almost irrelevant to the preceding argumentation. Dis-
tinctly, adsuitur. But how good it is in itself, very nearly its author's
best. I omit the frequent italicization of the original, which really adds
nothing :
Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history. We of this Congress and the
Administration will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance
or insignificance can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which
we pass will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation. We
say that we are for the Union. The world will not forget that we say this.
We know how to save the Union. The world knows that we do know how to save
it. We — even we here — ^liold the power and bear the responsibility. In giving
freedom to the slave, we assure freedom to the free — ^honorable alike in what we
give and what we presei*ve. We shall nobly save, or meanly lose, the last, best
hope of earth. Other means may succeed, this could not fail. The way is plain,
peaceful, generous, just — a way which, if followed, the world will forever applaud
and God must forever bless.
The fairly well-read English reader will, of course, be reminded by
those first three sentences of the expression of the like thought in the
conclusion of Burke's summing-up against Warren Hastings, a compo-
sition which it is higlily unlikely that Lincoln had ever seen :
A business which has so long occupied the councils and the tribunals of
Great Britain cannot possibly be huddled over in the course of vulgar, trite and
transitory events. . . . My Lords, we are all elevated to a degiee of importance
by it; the meanest of us will, by means of it, more or less become the concern of
posterity.
How satisfactory to one's patriotic pride to find that the utterance
SPECIAL ARTICLES 127
of the unBchooled American comes out so well in comparison with what
one may plausibly call the masterpiece of the most consummate rheto-
rician who has ever as an orator handled the English language. While in
the fourth sentence the American forges in his heat the brand-new
metaphor of the illuminating torch lighted by the "fiery trial." It is
worthy of Bui^ke, worthy of anybody, and quite at the highest level of
Lincoln.
The Third Annual Message contains little to our present purpose.
As little does the fourth. The bulk of each, again, is a cento of the con-
tributions of the heads of departments, of which Seward's part, the part
relating to foreign relations, is, as a matter of course, well and easily
written, and the other departmental contributions as it might please
Providence. But, in the minor share fairly attributable to the President's
own pen, one cannot fail to note the increase of ease which came with
increasing conversance with great affairs, and with increasing practice in
this form of composition. Horace Greeley's "culture" was perhaps about
on a level with Lincoln's, though Greeley had the more schooling, Lincoln
having never had any. In their controversial correspondence, however,
one cannot fail to discern the advantage which the more practised publicist
had by reason of his more pointed and popular style, a style to which the
late Mr. Godkin, himself an academically trained scholar, rendered just
tribute in a letter quoted by his biographer. But all the same, these later
messages of Lincoln, offering, as they do, so little that is quotable, never
"bringing the light of general culture to illuminate the technicalities
of a particular pursuit," nor rising into philosophic generalities beyond
the need of the actual occasion, as is the wont of born or highly trained
writers, have yet increasingly the air of a connaissance des choses. They
recall Clarendon's enforced praise of Cromwell:
When he appeared first in the Parliament, he seemed to have a Person in
no degree gracious, no ornament of discourse, none of those Talents which use to
conciliate the Affections of the Stander by: yet as he grew into Place and
Authority, his parts seemed to be raised as if he had concealed Faculties, till he
had occasion to use them; and when he was to act the part of a Great Man,
he did it without any indecency, notwithstanding the want of Custom.
The only sentence one can cite of these two messages applicable to
our present inquiry, is the last of the third message, setting forth the
high claims of the Army and Navy upon the national gratitude :
The gallant men, from commander to sentinel, who compose them, and to
whom more than to others^ the world must stand indebted for the house of free-
dom disenthralled, regenerated, enlarged and perpetuated.
Which, one would say, was a distorted schoolboy memory of what
128 ^™*^ FORUM
Charles Beade's American calls "Counsellor Curran's bnnkmn'^ — ^*'re-
deemed^ r^enerated and disenthralled by the irresistible genius of uni-
versal emancipation'^ — ^unless one happened to recollect that Lincoln
never was a schoolboy !
In the second Inaugural^ without question he rises again to his
greatest height, even to *^e height of that great argument." The more
the pily for the single blemish :
Fondly do we hope — fervently do we pray — that this mighty scourge of
war may speedily pass away. Yet^ if God wills that it continue until all the
wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil
shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid
with another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so
still it must be said, ''The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous
altogether."
With malice toward none; with charity for all; with firmness in the right,
as God gives us to see the right, let us strive to finish the work we are in; to
bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and
for his widow, and his orphan — ^to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and
lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.
What a pity about that jingling first sentence. How can one help
scanning it as metre, and even throwing it into metrical form, as was
done by the contemporaneous Copperhead scoffers:
Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray
That this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away.
Truly, ^'a style impossible to a born man of letters.^' It does what
one imlucky slip can do to discredit what follows. But what follows is
undiscreditable. It is as if the speaker felt already the shadow of the
catastrophe already impending, which was so suddenly, and in the next
ensuing month, to befall. It was, as it were, the unconscious realization
of that tremendous couplet of Richard Baxter:
I preached as never sure to preach again.
And as a dying man to dying men.
That citation will have to do. "Facit indignatio versum," says
Juvenal. "Ye hae gotten to your English,*' quotes Walter Scott of the
discourse of his countr3rwomen, when rapt by passion into eloquence.
"The speech of a man even in zealous anger becomes a chant, a song,*'
says Carlyle. And this once, these twice, the untutored Lincoln rose to
the height of his great argument. Thereby he assured his place among
the masters of English speech.
Montgomery Schuyler,
SPECIAL ARTICLES 129
OBJECTIONS TO SOCIALISM
BY GILBERT K. CHESTERTON
I HAYS been asked to give some exposition of how far and for what
reason a man who has not only a faith in democracy, but a great tenderness
for revolution, may nevertheless stand outside the movement commonly
called Socialism. If I am to do this I must make two prefatory state-
ments. The first is a short platitude; the second is a rather long per-
sonal explanation. But they both have to be stated before we get
on to absolute doctrines, which are the most important things in the
world.
The terse and necessary truism is the expression of ordinary human
disgust at the industrial system. To say that I do not like the present
state of wealth and poverty is merely to say I am not a devil in human
form. No one but Satan or Beelzebub could like the present state of
wealth and poverty. But the second point is rather more personal and
elaborate; and yet I think that it will make things clearer to explain it.
Before I come to the actual proposals of Collectivism, I want to say
something about the atmosphere and implication of those proposals.
Before I say anything about Socialism, I should like to say something
about Socialists.
I will confess that I attach much more importance to men's theoretical
arguments than to their practical proposals. I attach more importance to
what is said than to what is done ; what is said generally lasts much longer
and has much more influence. I can imagine no change worse for public
life than that which some prigs advocate, that debate should Be curtailed.
A man's arguments show what he is really up to. Until you have heard
the defence of a proposal, you do not really know even the proposal.
Thus, for instance, if a man says to me, "Taste this temperance drink,"
I have merely doubt, slightly tinged with distaste. But if he says, "Taste
it, because your wife would make a charming widow,'' then I decide. I
would be openly moved in my choice of an institution, not by its im-
mediate proposals for practice, but very much by its incidental, even
its accidental, allusion to ideals. I judge many things by their paren-
theses.
Socialistic Idealism does not attract me very much, even as Idealism.
The glimpses it gives of our future happiness depress me very much. They
do not remind me of any actual human happiness, of any happy day that
I have ever myself spent. No doubt there are many Socialists who feel
this, and there are many who will reply that it has nothing to do with
120 '^^^^ FOBUH
the actual proposal of SocialisiiL But my point is that I do not admit
such allufflTe elements into mv choice. To cite one instance of the kind
of thing I mean. Almost all Socialist Utopias make the happine^ or at
least the altruistic happiness of the future chiefly consL^ in the pleasure
of sharing, as we share a public park or the mustard at a restaurant.
This is the commonest sentiment in Socialist writing.
Socialists are Collectiirist in their proposals. But they are Com-
munist in their ideaUsm. Xow there is a real pleasure in sharing. We
have all felt it in the case of nuts off a tree, and such things. But it is
not the only pleasure nor the only altruistic pleasure, nor (I think) the
highest or most human of altruistic pleasures. I greatly prefer the
pleasure of giving and receiving. Giving is not the same as sharing;
giving is even the opposite of sharing. Sharing is based on the idea that
there is no property, or at least no personal property. But giving a
thing to another man is as much based on personal property as keeping
it to yourself. If after some universal interchange of generosities every
one was wearing some one else's hat, that state of things would still be
based upon private property.
I am quite serious and sincere when I say that I for one should
greatly prefer that world in which every one wore some one else's hat to
every Socialist Utopia that I have ever read about. It is better than shar-
ing one hat, anyhow. Remember, we are not now considering the modem
problem and its urgent solution; but only the ideal; what we would
have if we could get it. And if I were a poet writing an Utopia, if I
were a magician waving a wand, if I were a God making a planet, I
would deliberately make it a world of give and take, rather than a world
of sharing.
I do not wish Jones and Brown to share the same cigar box ; I do not
want it as an ideal ; I do not want it as a very remote ideal; I do not want
it at all. I want Jones by one mystical and godlike act to give a cigar
to Brown, and Brown by another mystical and godlike act to give a cigar
to Jones. Thus, it seems to me, instead of one act of fellowship (of
which the memory would slowly fade) we should have a continual
play and energy of new acts of fellowship keeping up the circulation of
society.
I have read some tons or square miles of Socialist eloquence in my
time, but it is literally true that I have never seen any serious allusion
to or clear consciousness of this creative altruism of personal giving.
For instance, in the many Utopian pictures of comrades feasting together,
I do not remember one that had the note of hospitality, of the difference
between host and guest and the difference between one house and another.
SPECIAL ARTICLES 131
No one brings up the port that his father laid down; no one is proud
of the pears grown in his own garden.
Keep in mind, please, the purpose of this article. I do not say that
these gifts and hospitalities would not happen in a Collectivist state. I do
say that they do not happen in Collectivists' instinctive visions of that
state. I *do not aver these things would not occur under Socialism. I
say they do not occur to Socialists. I know quite well that the im-
mediate answer will be, '^Oh, but there is nothing in the Socialist pro-
posal to prevent personal gift." That is why I explain thus elaborately
that I attach less importance to the proposal than to the spirit in which
it is proposed.
When a great revolution is made, it is seldom the fulfilment of its
own exact formula; but it is almost always in the image of its own im-
pulse and feeling for life. Men talk of unfulfilled ideals. But the ideals
are fulfilled ; because spiritual life is renewed. What is not fulfilled, as a
rule, is the business prospectus. Thus the Revolution has not established
in France any of the strict constitutions it planned out ; but it has estab-
lished in France the spirit of eighteenth century democracy, with its
cool reason, its bourgeois dignity, its well-distributed but very private
wealth, its universal minimum of good manners.
Just so, if Socialism is established, they may not fulfil their practical
proposals. But they will certainly fulfil their ideal vision. And I con-
fess that if Socialists have forgotten these important human mat-
ters in the telling of a leisurely tale, I think it very likely they will
forget them in the scurry of a social revolution. They have left certain
human needs out of their books; they may leave them out of their
republic.
I happen to hold a view which is almost unknown among Socialists,
Anarchists, Liberals and Conservatives. I believe very strongly in the
mass of the common people. I do not mean in their "potentialities," I
mean in their faces, in their habits, and their admirable language. Caught
in the trap of a terrible industrial machinery, harried by a shameful
economic cruelty, surrounded with an ugliness and desolation never en-
dured before among men, stunted by a stupid and provincial religion, or
by a more stupid and more provincial irreligion, the poor are still
by far the sanest, joUiest, and most reliable part of the community. —
Whether they agree with Socialism as a narrow proposal is difficult to
discover.
They will vote for Socialists as they will for other parties, because they
want certain things, or don*t want them. But one thing I should affirm
as certain, the whole smell and sentiment and general ideal of Socialism
132 THE FORUM
they detest and disdain. No part of the community is so specially fixed
in those forms and feelings which are opposite to the tone of most
Socialists; the privacy of homes^ the control of one's own children, the
minding of one^s own business. I look out of my back windows over the
black stretch of Battersea, and 1 believe I could make up a sort of creed,
a catalogue of maxims, which I am certain are believed, and believed
strongly, by the overwhelming mass of men and women as far as the eye
can reach. For instance, that a man's house is his castle, and that awful
properties ought to regulate admission to it; that marriage is a real
bond, making jealousy and marital revenge at the least highly pardonable;
that vegetarianism and all pitting of animal against human rights is a
silly fad; that on the other hand to save money to give yourself a fine
funeral is not a silly fad, but a symbol of ancestral self-respect; that
when giving treats to friends or children one should give them what
they like, emphatically not what is good for them ; that there is nothing
illogical in being furious because Tommy had been coldly caned by a
schoolmistress and then throwing saucepans at him yourself. All these
things they believe; they are the only people who do believe them; and
they are absolutely and eternally right. They are the ancient sanities of
humanity; the ten commandments of men.
I wish to point out that if Socialism is imposed on these people, it will
in moral actuality be an imposition and nothing else; just as the crea-
tion of Manchester industrialism was an imposition and nothing else.
You may get them to give a vote for Socialism; so did Manchester indi-
vidualists get them to give votes for Manchester. But they do not be-
lieve in the Socialist ideal any more than they ever believed in the Man-
chester ideal; they are too healthy to believe in either. But while they
are healthy, they are also vague, slow, bewildered, and unaccustomed,
alas, to civil war. Individualism was imposed on them by a handful of
merchants; Socialism will be imposed on them by a handful of decorative
artists and college dons and journalists and Countesses on the Spree.
Whether, like every other piece of oligarchic humbug in recent history, it
is done with a parade of ballet-boxes, interests me very little. The moral
fact is that the democracy definitely dislikes the Socialists' favorite
philosophy, but may accept 'it like so many others, rather than take the
trouble to resist.
Thinking thus, as I do, Socialism does not hold the field for me as it
does for others. My eyes are fixed on another thing altogether, a thing
that may move or not; but which, if it does move, will crush Socialism
with one hand and landlordism with the other. They will destroy land-
lordism, not because it is property, but because it is the negation of prop-
SPECIAL ARTICLES 133
erty. It is the negation of property that the Duke of Westminfiter should
own whole streets and squares of London ; just as it would be the negation
of marriage if he had all living women in one great harem. If ever the
actual poor do move to destroy this evil, they will do it with the object
not only of giving every man private property, but very specially private
property; they will probably exaggerate in that direction; for in that
direction is the whole humor and poetry of their own lives. For the
Kevolution, if they make it, there will be all the features which they like
and I like; the strong sense of coziness, the instinct for special festival,
the distinction between the dignities of man and woman, responsibility
of a man under his roof.
If Socialists make the Revolution it will be marked by all the things
that democracy detests and I detest; the talk about the inevitable, the
love of statistics, the materialist theoiy of history, the trivialities of So-
ciology, and the uproarious folly of Eugenics. I know the answer of So-
cialism; I know the risks I run. Perhaps democracy will never move.
Perhaps the people, if you gave them beer enough, would accept even
Eugenics. It is enough for me for the moment to say that I cannot be-
lieve it. The poor are so obviously right, I cannot fancy that they will
never enforce their rightness against all the prigs of the Socialist party
and mine. At any rate that is why I am not a Socialist, just as I am not
a Tory; because I have not lost faith in democracy.
Oilhert K. Chesterton,
THE NATIVITY OP LINCOLN^
Prelude to "An Ode on the Centenary of Abraham Lincoln"
BY PERCY MACKAYB
It was the season bleak
Of silence and long night
And solemn starshine and large solitude ;
Hardly more husht the world when first the word
Of God creation stirred.
Far steept in wilderness. By the frore creek.
Mute in the moon, the sculptured stag in flight
iThese verses are the opening lines of a longer poem, which the author will
deliver before the Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Sciences on February 7th,
and they are published here by special arrangement with the Brooklyn Institute
and with the Macmillan Company, who will publish the complete Ode in book
form during the present month.
134 THE FORUM
Paused^ panting silver ; in her oedam lair^
Crouched with her starveling litter, the numb lynx
Winked the keen hoar-frost, quiet as a sphinx;
On the lone forest trail
Only the coyote's wail
Quivered, and ceased.
It was the chrisom rude
Of winter and wild beast
That consecrated, by harsh nature's rite,
A meagre cabin crude,
Builded of logs and bark.
To be a pilgrim nation's hallowed ark
And shrine the goal aspiring ages seek.
No ceremonial
Of pealed chime was there, or blarM horn.
Such as hath blazoned births of lesser kings.
When he — the elder brother of us all,
Lincoln — was bom.
At his nativity
Want stood as sponsor, stark Obscurity
Was midwife, and all lonely things
Of nature were unconscious ministers
To endow his spirit meek
With their own melancholy. So when he —
An infant king of commoners —
Lay in his mother's arms, of all the earth
(Which now his fame wears for a diadem)
None heeded of his birth ;
Only a star burned over Betlilehem
More bright, and big with prophecy
A secret gust from that far February
Fills now the organ-reeds that peal his centenary.
Percy Mackaye,
THE DRAMA
DRAMATIC LITERATURE AND THEATRIC JOURNALISM
BY CLAYTON HAMILTON
One reason why journalism is a lesser thing than literature is that it
subserves the tyranny of timeliness. It narrates the events of the day
and discusses the topics of the hour, for the sole reason
Journalism ^^^^ ^^®y happ^n for the moment to float uppermost
and upon the current of human experience. The flotsam of this
Literature current may occasionally have dived up from the depths
and may give a glimpse of some underlying secret of the
eea ; but most often it merely drifts upon the surface, indicative of nothing
except which way the wind lies. Whatever topic is the most timely to-day
is doomed to be the most untimely to-morrow. Where are the journals of
yester-year? Dig them out of dusty files, and all that they say will seem
wearisomely olS, for the very reason that when it was written it seemed
spiritedly new. Whatever wears a date upon its forehead will soon be
out of date. The main interest of news is newness; and nothing slips so
soon behind the times as novelty.
With timeliness, as an incentive, literature has absolutely no concern.
Its purpose is to reveal what was and is and evermore shall be. It can
never grow old, for the reason that it has never attempted to be new.
Early in the nineteenth century the gentle Elia revolted from the tyranny
of timeliness. "Hang the present age \" said he, "I'll write for antiquity.''
The timely utterances of his contemporaries have passed away with the
times that called them forth: his essays live perennially new. In the
dateless realm of revelation, antiquity joins hands with futurity. There
can be nothing either new or old in any utterance which is really true or
beautiful or right.
In considering a given subject, journalism seeks to discover what
there is in it that belongs to the moment, and literature seeks to reveal
what there is in it that belongs to eternity. To journalism facts are im-
portant because they are facts; to literature they are important only in
so far as they are representative of recurrent truths. Journalism re-
cords the fact that the Sabbath services of Trinity Church in New York
City are maintained by an income squeezed out of squalid tenements
which breed disease, and that the corporation of the church is about to
136 THE FOKUM
abandon religious ministrations in a chapel of aesthetic beauty and anti-
quarian interest because the services no longer pay. Concerning the same
subject, literature said something everlasting when it remarked that many
people cry aloud in public, "Lord! Lord!" to a Deity that knows
them not.
Literature speaks because it has something to say : journalism speaks
because the public wants to be talked to. Literature is an emanation from
an inward impulse: but the motive of journalism is external; it is
fashioned to supply a demand outside itself. It is frequently said, and
is sometimes believed, that the province of journalism is to mould public
opinion ; but a consideration of actual conditions indicates rather that its
province is to find out what the opinion of some section of the public is,
and then to formulate it and express it. The successful journalist tells
his readers what they want to be told. He becomes their prophet by
making clear to them what they themselves are thinking. He influences
people by agreeing with them. In doing this he may be entirely sincere,
for his readers may be right and may demand from him the statement of
his own most serious convictions; but the fact remains that his motive
for expression is centred in them instead of in himself. It is not thus
that literature is motivated. Literature is not a formulation of public
opinion, but an expression of personal and particular belief. For this
reason it is more likely to be true. Public opinion is seldom so important
as private opinion. Socrates was right and Athens wrong. Very fre-
quently the multitude at the foot of the mountain are worshipping a
golden calf, while the prophet, lonely and aloof upon the summit, is
hearkening to the very voice of God.
The journalist is limited by the necessity of catering to majorities;
he can never experience the felicity of Dr. Stockman, who felt himself
the strongest man on earth because he stood most alone. It may some-
times happen that the majority is right ; but in that case the agreement
of the journalist is an unnecessary utterance. The truth was known
before he spoke, and his speaking is superfluous. What is popularly said
about the educative force of journalism is, for the most part, baseless.
Education occurs when a man is confronted with something true and
beautiful and good which stimulates to active life that ''bright effluence
of bright essence increate'* which dwells within him. The real ministers
of education must be, in Emerson's phrase, 'lonely, original, and pure."
But journalism is popular instead of lonely, timely rather than original,
and expedient instead of pure. Even at its best, journalism remains an
enterprise ; but literature at its best becomes no less than a religion.
These considerations are of service in studying what is written for the
THE DRAMA 187
theatre. In all periods, certain contributions to the drama have been
journalistic in motive and intention, while certain others have been
literary. There is a good deal of journalism in the comedies of Aris-
tophanes. He often chooses topics mainly for their timeliness, and gathers
and says what happens to be in the air. Many of the Elizabethan dram-
atists, like Dekker and Heywood and Middleton for example, looked at
life with the journalistic eye. They collected and disseminated news.
They were, in their own time, much more "up to date" than Shakespeare,
who chose for his material old stories that nearly every one had read.
Ben Jonson's Bartholomew Fair is glorified journalism. It brims over
with contemporary gossip and timely 'v^-itticisms. Therefore it is out of
date to-day, and is read only by people who wish to find out certain facts
of London life in Jonson's time. Hamlet in 1602 was not a novelty; but
it is still read and seen by people who wish to find out certain truths of
life in general.
At the present day a very large proportion of the contributions to the
theatre must be classed and judged as journalism. Such plays, for in-
stance, as The Lion and the Mouse and The Man of the Hour are nothing
more or less than dramatized newspapers. A piece of this sort, however
effective it may be at the moment, must soon suffer the fate of all things
timely and slip behind the times. Whenever an author selects a subject
because he thinks the public wants him to talk about it, instead of be-
cause he knows he wants to talk about it to the public, his motive is
journalistic rather than literary. A timely topic may, however, be used
to embody a truly literary intention. In The Witching Hour, iov ex-
ample, journalism was lifted into literature by the sincerity of Mr.
Thomas's conviction that he had something real and significant to say.
The play became important because there was a man behind it. Indi-
vidual personality is perhaps the most dateless of all phenomena. The
fact of any great individuality once accomplished and achieved becomes
contemporary with the human race and sloughs off the usual limits of
past and future.
Whatever Mr. J. M. Barrie writes is literature, because he dwells
islanded amidst the world in a wise minority of one. The things that
he says are of importance because nobody else could have
"What Every ^^^ them. He has achieved individuality, and thereby
Woman passed out of hearing of the ticking of clocks into an
Knows" cver-ever land where dates are not and consequently epi-
taphs can never be. What he utters is of interest to the
public, because his motive for speaking is private and personal. Instead
138 THE FOKUM
of telling people what they think that they are thinking, he tells them
what they have always known but think they have forgotten. He per-
forms, for this oblivious generation, the service of a great reminder. He
lures us from the strident and factitious world of which we read daily
in the first pages of the newspapers, back to the serene eternal world of
little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love. He edu-
cates the many, not by any crass endeavor to formulate or even to mould
the opinion of the public, but by setting simply before them thoughts
which do often lie too deep for tears.
The distinguishing trait of Mr. Barrie's genius is that he looks upon
life with the simplicity of a child and sees it with the wisdom of a
woman. He has a woman's subtlety of insight, a child^s concreteness of
imagination. He is endowed (to reverse a famous phrase of Matthew
Arnold's) with a sweet imreasonableness. He understands life not with
his intellect but with his sensibilities. As a consequence, he is familiar
with all the tremulous, delicate intimacies of human nature that every
woman knows, but that most men glimpse only in moments of exalted
sympathy with some wise woman whom they love. His insight has that
absoluteness which is beyond the reach of intellect alone. He knows things
for the unutterable woman's reason — ^^Ibecause ..."
But with this feminine, intuitive understanding of humanity, Mr.
Barrie combines the distinctively masculine trait of being able to com-
municate the things that his emotions know. The greatest poets would,
of course, be women, were it not for the fact that women are in general
incapable of revealing through the medium of articulate art the very things
they know most deeply. Most of the women who have written have said
only the lesser phases of themselves; they have unwittingly withheld their
deepest and most poignant wisdom because of a native reticence of speech.
Many a time they reach a heaven of understanding shut to men; but
when they come back, they cannot tell the world. The rare artists among
women, like Sappho and Mrs. Browning and Christina Eossetti and
Laurence Hope, in their several different ways, have gotten themselves
expressed only through a sublime and glorious unashamedness. As Haw-
thorne once remarked very wisely, women have achieved art only when
they have stood naked in the market-place. But men in general are not
withheld by a similar hesitance from saying what they feel most deeply. No
woman could have written ]\f r. Barrie's biography of his mother ; but for
a man like him there is a sort of sacredness in revealing emotion so private
as to be expressible only in the purest speech,
Mr. Barrie was apparently bom into the world of men to tell us what
our mothers and our wives would have told us if they could — ^what in
THE DRAMA 139
deep moments they have tried to tell us, trembling exquisitely upon the
verge of words. The theme of his best work has always been "what every
woman knows.'' He has chosen this very phrase for the title of his latest
play, the subject of which is a struggle between the wisdom of a woman •
and the unawareness of a man.
Maggie Wylie is one of those charming women who think they have no
charm, and are therefore difficult for masculine obtuseness to appreciate.
She lives in a little, out-of-the-way nook of Scotland, with her three
elder brothers, who, by steady shrewdness and simple-minded persistency
of purpose, have amassed a comfortable fortune from a granite-quarry.
The brothers regret their lack of education, and install ten yards of the
world's best literature in their living-room. Instead of reading the books,
however, they play chess in the evenings. None of them has ever loved;
and it therefore hurts them all the more that Maggie is not sought after.
For a time the minister seemed to look upon her kindly; but he has lately
married some one else. It seems to be Maggie's fate to be neglected, be-
cause, you know, she has no charm. The brothers try to keep their
feelings to themselves, but Maggie finds them out. She finds out yet
another thing that they are trying to keep from her — ^namely, that on
two or three nights of late a burglar has been seen entering the window
of their living-room after they have gone to bed. This night they all
jsjt up to trap him. When they slink in stealthily, they find the supposed
burglar poring over one of the volumes of the world's best literature, sunk
in study. He proves to be John Shand, who takes tickets at the railway
station in the summer, in order that he may study at the Glasgow
University in the winter. He has no money to buy books of his own, and
therefore comes to borrow culture of the Wylies. Shand has no sense of
humor whatsoever. He is enormously an egoist ; and there is therefore —
to use a word of Maggie's — something "glorious" about him. He is
doggedly determined to rise in the world. The Wylie brothers are taken
^vith his strength and singleness of purpose, and they hit upon a canny
and a shrewd idea. They offer to lay out three hundred poimds on his
education, provided that, at the end of five years, when his education shall
have been completed, Maggie shall have the privilege of marrying him,
provided that she wishes to. Shand at first rebels at what he considers a
one-sided bargain ; but his dominant interest in his own career soon wins
him to consent. When he is gone, Maggie picks up the book that he has
left lying open on the table, and takes it to bed with her. Her brothers
ask her why. "Do you think," says she, "I want him to be knowing any-
thing I don't know myself?"
The five years pass, the education is accomplished, and Shand comes
r
140 THE FORUM
forward to stand for Parliament. Maggie waits an extra year, in order
not to hamper him at the outset of his career; and during that extra year
she grows to love him. His election afflicts her with a conflict of emotions.
She knows he does not love her; but she longs to mother him and make
him great. Yet the very vastness of her longing makes her feel herself
unworthy of the task she longs for. In Shand's presence she tears up
the document that binds him to her, and sets him free. He has no under-
standing of her, but feels held to her by a simple-minded sense of right;
and before all his cheering constituenlB he announces his intention to
marr}' her.
Shand enters Parliament handicapped by a lack of all the gentle-
manly graces, but aided by crude directness and rugged self-assertion.
Maggie helps him with a charming instinctive diplomacy which he neither
sees nor dreams of. Also, she ty^es his speeches for him, and during
the process of copying them, points his rather labored periods with pithy
epigrams. In consequence, Shand, who has no sense of humor, soon be-
comes noted as a wit. Opportunity opens bright before him. Then he
falls in love.
Lady Sybil Lazenby has been attracted to him because he is different
from other men. There is something compelling and overwhelming in
what she calls his "vulgarity." Shand is attracted to her by the fact that
she adores him. Maggie discovers her husband making love to Lady
Sybil. Shand, with dogged honesty, tells Maggie that since he has never
loved her and has now found the lady of his love, he must in truth and
justice discard Maggie and go away with Lady Sybil. Maggie takes the
chm of Lady Sybil in her hand, and looks into her face. "I'm glad that
you are beautiful," she says. A little later on she murmurs, ''What does
it matter how he treats me? He's just my little boy."
Maggie does not weep or tear her hair. Instead, she says to her
brothers, "Would you have me desert him now, when he needs me most?"
She helps her husband in his plans for leaving her. He had better not
go till Saturday, she advises, because "that's the day the laundry comes
home." Maggie is very shrewd and wise. John shall accept the invitation
of the Comtesse de la Bri^re, and shall spend two weeks at her country-
seat, while he is writing the great speech which is to make the hit of his
career. Then Maggie telephones the countess to invite Lady Sybil down
for the entire fortnight.
Down in the country, Shand fails to feel the inspiration that he needs.
Lady Sybil wearies of him, and he finds her less enchanting than before.
His speech is a failure. Maggie comes down with her own revision of the
first draft of his address. She is hoping for what has happened. "As
THE DRAMA 141
soon as I look into his eyes^ I shall know/' she tells the countess. Lady
Sybil and Shand confess the bursting of their iridescent bubble of dream.
Maggie has won back her little boy. For the first time in his life^ she
wheedles him into laughter. Later she will lead him into love.
No summary of this play could possibly suggest its exquisite, un-
utterable charm. The men in the story have no sense of humor ; yet every-
thing they say is funny. Maggie sees the humor of everything; yet in
nearly all she says, there is a tenderness which is less akin to laughter than
to tears. The whole drama is revealed so gently that an audience inured
to sound and fury can scarcely realize at first how wise it is. Yet subtly
and surely it "gets around" the audience; for nearly every line of it is a
focal point of light whence rays irradiate through all of human life.
What Every Woman Knows is the one authentic piece of literature
which is at present visible in the theatres of New York. It would be
futile for the critic to dwell in detail upon its many merits. It is a great
play, for the simple reason that Mr. Barrie is a great man. It is re-
assuring to those who believe in the appreciation of the public that it
is being played at every performance to the full capacity of the theatre.
The surest way to succeed in the drama, as in any other art, is to have
something to say.
In turning our attention to The Battle, we are descending from the
level of dramatic . literature to the level of theatric journalism. The
author, Mr. Cleveland MofEett, is the Sunday editor of
the New York Herald; and he has made up the play
g * „ with the same sort of intelligence and skill that is re-
quired to make up a newspaper. Popular discussions
concerning the relation between capital and labor are in
the air. Parlor socialists with no scientific knowledge of sociology or
economics are murmuring anathemas at multi-millionaires; the many are
howling hoarsely at the few ; and the monied minority, calling themselves
captains of industry, are talking back with a lack of logic similarly
shallow. These windy reverberations the public in general mistakes for
serious thinking; and it solemnly reads the editorials of the popular
evening papers with the self-complacent feeling that thereby it is learn-
ing something about what it calls the vital problems of civilization.
Journalism succeeds by flattering the huge vanity of the popular intellect.
It catches a day laborer and talks to him about Standard Oil in such a
way as to make him think that he has economic theories. It flatters
sentimentalists by telling them that they know something about sociology.
In order to carry out this campaign of raising the minds of the many
]^42 '^^^^ FORtJM
in their own estimation^ it necessarily restricts itself to the utterance of
only what is commonplace. It eschews thought, because thought is un-
popular^ and would bewilder instead of flattering the average brain.
Mr. MoflEett, looking for a timely topic out of which to make a play
of popular appeal, decided with shrewd and business-like expediency to
set forth a battle between the ideas of a capitalist and the ideas of a
socialist. He derived the necessary concreteness of human interest by
making the protagonists father and son. The father, John J. Haggleton,
is very rich. Early in his career his wife has revolted against his
malefactions in crushing competitors, and has left him, taking away with
her their litfle boy. She dies poor; and the son, Phillip Ames, grows up
as a workman and develops socialism. The father gets track of Phillip
and seeks to win him for his very own. In order to do this, Haggleton
goes down to live and work in the tenement district, and, starting without
any money whatsoever, endeavors to show the poor that they could all
get rich if they would exert the sort of business instinct with which he is
himself endowed. Haggleton organizes a bakery trust and wins Phillip's
admiration by cornering the market. Three acts give ample opportunity
for the usual newspaper sort of talk about the problems of poverty and
wealth. Every character in the cast is given a chance to emit common-
places, on this side of the question and on that. By talking all around
his topic, Mr. Moffett manages to agree sooner or later with everybody in
his audience. The man from the street has only to wait long enough for
his particular opportunity to say — ^^^Ah I that^s just what I think I What
a profound and serious thinker I must be I'^ What Mr. Moffett himself
thinks is, for the most part, carefully concealed by his method of compro-
mise; but now and then he indicates that he is really on the side of his
millionaire.
At any rate, the millionaire's case is presented with the greater
emphasis of rhetoric. But at the end of three acts of discussion Phillip
still remains unconvinced. Obviously it is useless to argue with him any
longer; so Mr. Moffett shoots him instead. The shot was really aimed at
Haggleton, by an early victim of his business methods; but Phillip inter-
posed and took the bullet. He is not wounded mortally; and his long
convalescence in Haggleton's Fifth Avenue mansion gives the father and
the son an opportunity to discover that blood is thicker than newspaper
editorials, and to renounce their battle of theories for the peace of parental
and filial love.
The Battle is replete with lines that make the auditors think that they
are thinking. Therefore, of course, it is exceedingly popular, in spite of
the fact that it is crudely constructed, and blurs, rather than defines, the
THE DRAMA 143
issues it advances for consideration. It would, of course, be unfair to
complain of an orange that it is not a grape-fruit. It is really nothing
against I'he Battle that it lacks the high sincerity of literature. The
author talked to the public about a timely topic because it wanted him
to, and he told the public what it wanted him to say. The Battle is fully
as important as the daUy newspapers, and is rather more interesting as
an indication of the tenuity of transitory thought.
One drawback of journalism is that it is always in danger of the
yellow peril. Mr. Moffett's play was good of its kind; but An Inter-
national Marriage, by Mr. George Broadhurst, was
»/^ tinted with a lemon tinge. Mr. Broadhurst, by studying
International the daily press, discovered that the public enjoys gossip
Marriage" about love affairs between American heiresses and for-
eign dukes. The play which he developed from this
timely theme was amazing in naive vulgarity. It was artificial, shallow,
tedioucf, and offensive to the taste. It was interesting only as the exhi-
bition of a tendency, and may charitably be forgotten, like the journals of
yester-year.
By those who remain ever on the outlook for new playwrights of gen-
uine promise. Miss Marion Fairfax, who in private life is Mrs. Tully
Marshall, will be remembered as the author of a play of
serious import and sincere craftsmanship, entitled The
^. * n Builders, which was produced for a limited number of
performances a couple of seasons ago. This play had the
ring of reality and the merit of earnestness, and deserved
. a longer run than was accorded it.
The Chaperon, by the same author, which has lately been disclosed,
is a work of less importance, conceived and written in a lighter vein; but
it reveals the same merits of sincerity of purpose and competence of
craftsmanship. It tells with neatness an agreeable story of youthful
holidaying. The scene is in the Adirondacks. Mr. and Mrs. Coombs,
who are entertaining a house-party of girls, are called suddenly to the
city, and request the young Countess Van Tuyle to take charge of the
girls while they are gone. The countess, who has married in haste, is now
securing a divorce at leisure. Who should wander in but Jim Ogden,
whom she loved before she ever met the count, and who loves her still.
They go canoeing in the moonlight, and their fragile craft is wrecked
upon a rock. They are marooned all night upon a barren island, where
they are discovered the next morning by the Count, who threatens to dis-
144 ^™® FORUM
seminate a scandal, but is pleasantly and properly thrashed by Jim. The
chaperon finally gets back to her charges^ to find that they are all engaged
to eligible young men, that the servants have left, and that the whole
house is topsy-turvy. Mr. and Mrs. Coombs return upon a scene of gen-
eral embarrassment; but everybody marries everybody else, and nobody
cares about the many contretemps which have been laughed through.
Both the building and the writing of this delicate and fragile play are
simple and clear; the character types are neatly sketched; and the piece
is pervaded by an atmosphere of jocund youth which is both charming
and refreshing. The Chaperon is a tiny task done well.
Mr. Edward Childs Carpenter is a Philadelphia newspaper man; but
there is no suggestion of journalism in his play. The Barber of New
Orleans. Bather he seeks escape from timely actualities
"The Barber ^J telling himself and us an elaborate tale of pleasant
of impossibilities. The piece is set in ''the little Paris in
New Orleans" the wilderness," shortly after the purchase of Louisiana
by the United States. The hero is no ordinary barber,
lie is also a fencing-master, a dancing-teacher, a poet and a playwright,
a gentleman and a wit, the son of a soldier, and a knightly servitor
of damsels in distress. He exposes and crushes a conspiracy against the
Government, wins a fortune in a lottery, spends it all to save the girl he
loves, bravely faces single-handed a howling mob of enemies, forces a
confession of truth from a traducer by holding him imprisoned in a
barber's chair and threatening to cut his throat, and wins the love of the
heroine at last, though she has turned out to be no less than a princess
of France.
Mr. Carpenter's play is romantically true at many incidental mo-
ments, but artificial and false at the crises of the action. There is an
agreeable diversity in the movement of the story; but the plot is so
intricate that at times the mechanism creaks and dispels all illusion of
life. The play would have been better if the author had not seen and
read and remembered too many other pieces of the same general sort
It is a story about stories, rather than a story about life. But it is very
prettily written, and is aglow at many moments with the charm of make-
believe.
The Vampire, by Mr. Edgar Allan Woolf and Mr. George Sylvester
Yiereck, is a supernatural extravaganza. The central figure in the story,
Paul Hartleigh by name, has achieved renown as a poet. He is endowed
with a genius for expression, but is deficient in original ideas. He secures
material for his poems by appropriating the ideas of others. He gathers
THE DRAMA 145
about him a number of young artists whose brains are thrilling with
incomplete imaginings, and by an occult power of absorption robs them
of their thoughts. This he achieves through laying his
hand upon their heads while they are sleeping. The
**^^* . n fable further presupposes that the minds thus pilfered
a»Pir« from are left empty by the process, and are reduced after
a sufficient time to the blank exhaustion of idiocy. A
young sculptor, named Gleorge Townsend, escapes from the vampire just
as he has been drained to a state of nervous hysteria. A promising young
novelist, named Caryl Fielding, is less fortunate, and avoids the doom of
madness only by the intercession of a girl with whom he is in love, and
who is strong to save him because she is also loved by Hartleigh.
There is nothing in this phantasmagoria to warrant serious considera-
tion. The sole legitimate reason for employing the supernatural in fiction
is that thereby it is occasionally possible to embody more completely and
express more emphatically some sure reality of life than by any other
means. For instance, when Stevenson subverts the actual in Dr. JeTcyll
and Mr. Hyde, he does so for the purpose of presenting an eternal law of
human nature. His fable, though contrary to fact, is deeply true. Now
it is, of course, true that some people of peculiarly receptive sensibilities
have a genius for absorbing the ideas, expressed and unexpressed, of people
of active minds with whom they come in contact ; but the thesis that an
idea conveyed in any way from one mind to another ceases to exist in the
mind that held it first not only has no f oimdation in fact but does not even
present to the imagination a suggestion of psychologic truth. Instead
of being an imaginative translation of natural law into supernatural
terms, tins play is merely clap-trap.
Considered solely as a bit of mechanism contrived to produce a nervous
thrill, the piece is ineffective except at rare and scattered moments. It
is deficient in action, and is overburdened with talk. The authors show a
lack of sureness in conceiving character, and throughout the play the
motives of the leading actors remain obscure. The introduction of a
preposterous travesty of Whistler at the first curtain-fall is unpardonable.
The piece is written with that elaborateness of language which is cus-
tomary with young authors before they calm down into style. Much of
the talk is oppressively aesthetic. Great names are juggled with and
rehearsed in catalogue. ''Homer, Shakespeare, Balzac,*' some character
begins; and the auditor is fain to add, "Albany, Schenectady, TTtica, Syra-
cuse." A sense of humor on the part of either of the authors would
have improved the play in more ways than one.
Clayton Hamilton.
ARAMINTA-
BY J. C. SNAITH
CHAPTEB X
JIM LASCELLE8 MAKES HIS APPEABANCE
Miss Araminta Perry, Hill Street, London, W,, to Miss Elizabeth Perry,
the Parsonage^ Slocum Magna, North Devon.
Dearest Mupfin: London is a much larger place than Slocmn
Magna^ but I don't think it is nearly so nice. I think, if I had not got
Tobias with me, sometimes I might be very miserable.
First I must tell you about my new frock. It is a lilac one, and has
been copied from a famous picture of Great-grandmamma Dorset, by a
painter named Gainsborough — ^I mean that Gainsborough copied Great-
grandmamma Dorset, not that he made my frock. Madame Pelissier made
my frock. It is not quite so nice as your mauve was, but it is mtich ad-
mired by nearly everybody in London. When I walk out in it people of-
ten turn round to look at it.
I think the people here are sometimes rather rude, but Lord Andover
says I am not to mind, as people are like that in London. Lord An-
dover is a sweet. Aunt Caroline says he is much older than he looks, but
Miss Burden doesn't think so. Aunt Caroline must be right because she
is always right in ever3rthing, but Miss Burden is just a sweet. She
comes to my room every night to see if I am miserable. She is very good
to Tobias. Aunt Caroline says she is too romantic. She had a love affair
when she was younger. Lord Andover says I must be careful that I
don't have one, as they are so bad for the complexion. He says he knows
as a fact that all the men in London are untrustworthy. He says oldish
men, particularly if they have been married, are very dangerous. As
dearest papa is not here to advise me. Lord Andover acts as he thinks
dearest papa would like him to. He goes out with me everywhere to see
that I come to no harm. Isn^t it dear of him ?
Yesterday Lord Andover took me to the Zoological Gardens to see the
elephants. It was Aunt Caroline's suggestion. She thought we should
find so many things in common. I think we did ; at least I know we had
one thing in common. We are both very fond of cream buns. I had
four, and one of the elephants had five. But Lord Andover says the
elephants are so big you can't call them greedy. We also saw the bears.
^OopyrigTU, 1908, hy Mofat, Tcerd and^\Company, .
ARAMINTA 147
They each had a cream bun apiece. Lord Andover said each of them
would have eaten another^ but he thought it hardly right to encourage
them.
Lord Andover is a very high principled man. He says I am to be
very careful of a perfectly charming old gentleman who calls most days
to see Aunt Caroline. I call him 6obo because he gobbles like a turkey,
and he calls me Goose because I am rather a Silly. He is a Duke really.
Lord Andover doesn't seem to trust him. He says it is because of his past
life. I heard Lord Andover tell Aunt Caroline that she ought not to
encourage the old reprobate with me in the house. It is rather dreadful
that he should be like that because he is such a dear, although his face is
so red and he gobbles like anything. He — Gobo — ^is going to give me a
riding horse so that I can ride in Botten Bow, as it is so good for the
health. He rides in Botten Bow every morning. He says my horse will
be quite as nice as Squire Lascelles' pedigree hunter was. I don't think
Lord Andover approves of it. He seems to doubt whether dearest papa
would like me to be seen much in public with a man who has no prin-
ciples.
I have spoken to Miss Burden about it. But she agrees with Lord
Andover in everything, because she considers he is the only perfect man
she has ever met. Miss Burden says his ideals are so lofty. Aunt Caro-
line doesn't think so much of Lord Andover. She says that all men and
most women are vain, selfish, worldly and self-seeking. I wish Aunt Caro-
line could meet dearest papa. And you too. Muffin dearest. But I do
think Aunt Caroline is mistaken about Lord Andover. I know that he
pays great attention to his appearance, but I am perfectly sure he is a
sweet. If he were not why should he take so much trouble over my lilac
frock and my new hat, which I don't think I like because it makes people
stare so; and why should he be so careful that I should come to no harm,
and always try to act just as he thinks dearest papa would like him to?
I am sure Aunt Caroline must be mistaken. It must be because people in
London are always cynical. At least that is what Lord Andover says.
He says there is something in the atmosphere of London that turns the
milk of human kindness sour. Isn't it dreadful ? I am so glad we haven't
that kind of atmosphere at Slocum Magna, Muffin dearest.
Lord Andover is marvellously clever. Some of the words he uses are
longer than dearest papa's. He says I am a throwback. He won't tell me
what it means. He says it is a dictionary word, yet I can't find it in Aunt
Caroline's dictionary. Aunt Caroline says I am too inquisifive. Please
ask dearest papa. He will certainly know.
Lord Andover is very good at poetry. He says it is because he went to
r
^^g THE FORUM
the same school as Lord Byron. He has written what he calls an Ode to a
Lilac Frock. It b^ins like this:
Youth is 80 fair that the Morning's smile.
Is touched with the glamor of a ghid delist.
I cannot remember any more^ and Aunt Caroline bnmt the copy he gave
me> herself personally. She said he was old enough to know better. But
I think it is awfully clever of him, donH yon, MnfBn dearest? Miss Bur-
den was very miserable about the ode — ^I mean of course about Aunt
Caroline burning it. She scorched her fingers in trying to rescue it from
the flames. She has a new lilac frock, because Lord Andover admires
lilac frocks so much. She looks a sweet in it, although Aunt Caroline
says she looks a perfect fright. Aunt Caroline always says what she
means, but I don't think she always means what she says. She said some
perfectly wicked things about Tobias when the poor darling escaped from
his basket and hid behind the drawing-room curtains. But I think that
was because Ponto was frightened. Ponto is a little horror. I think I
shall persuade Tobias to bite him.
Aunt Caroline says if I behave well I am to go to Buckingham Palace
to see the queen. If I do go I am to have another new frock, although I
am sure I shall never get one half so nice as my lilac is. I do wish I could
go in that. I am sure the queen would like it; but when I told Aunt
Caroline she told me to hold my tongue. The frock I am going to see
the queen in is all white, which Lord Andover says is his favorite color,
because it is the emblem of virginal purity.
I have not had a single game of hockey since I came to London. Lord
Andover says they only play hockey in London when the Thames is frozen
over, which happens only once in a blue moon. I do call that silly, don^t
you, Muffin dearest, when we have a mixed match at Slocum Magna every
Wednesday all through the winter?
Last night I went to a party in my new evening frock. Everybody
liked it, at least they said they did. One or two young men told me they
admired it immensely. Wasn't it dear of them? Lord A. and Oobo were
there. They didn't think it was cut a bit too low. I am so pleased. I
wish. Muffin dearest, that you and Polly and Milly had one like it, because
I am sure it must be awfully expensive. And what do you think? Aunt
Caroline has given me a string of pearls to wear with it which once be-
longed to Great-grandmamma Dorset. I do call that British, don't you?
They are supposed to be very valuable. Lord A. and Qobo both thought
the party was a great success. Aunt Caroline went to sleep most of tiie
evening.
ARAMTNTA 149
A fortnight next Wednesday Aunt Caroline is going to give a dance
because of me. It was Lord Andover who persuaded her, and he is ar-
ranging everything. Aunt Caroline and he cannot agree about the
champagne for supper. Aunt Caroline says that claret cup was consid-
ered good enough when she came out. Lord Andover says that civiliza-
tion has advanced since those days. I thought it sounded unkind to Aunt
Caroline, but Miss Burden says Lord Andover can't help putting things
epigrammatically.
Then too. Muffin dearest, I must tell you that Aunt Caroline and
Lord Andover have almost quarrelled over Gobo. Lord A. insists upon
not inviting the harmless, old dear. He says if he comes to the ball he
will abuse the wine, yet drink more of it than is good for him, and that
he will play bridge all the evening and be a nuisance to everybody. Lord
Andover says he always vitiates an atmosphere of virginal purity by say-
ing and doing things that he oughtn't. I suppose Lord Andover will have
to have his way, because he is acting as a sort of deputy to dearest papa.
He has already kissed me several times ^^atemally,*^ which is really aw-
fully sweet of him; and every day he warns me to beware of Gobo and to
be very careful that he does not go too far.
This is all this time, MufiBn dearest. I send heaps and heaps of love
and kisses to you and Polly and Milly and Dickie and Charley and poor
blind Doggo; and to dearest papa I send twelve extra special kisses.
I remain always
Your most affectionate sister,
Groose.
P.S. Tobias sends his fondest love.
This letter may enable the judicious to discern that, although the con-
quest of London by the lilac frock and the daffodil-colored mane pro-
ceeded apace, all was not harmony in Hill Street, W. To Andover^s
masterly stage management there can be no doubt much of the triumph
was due, but he unfortunately was the last man in the world to under-
rate his own achievement. "Andover can't carry com,'^ was the trite but
obviously just manner in which George Betterton summed up the situa-
tion.
No two persons knew Caroline Crewkeme quite so well as these old
cronies. And no one save Caroline Crewkeme knew them quite so well
as they knew each other. It required a very experienced hand to hold the
balance even between them. Let it be said at once that one was forth-
coming in that very worldly wise old woman.
This was quite as it should be. For it was wonderful .how soon it
150 ^™^ FORUM
was bruited about in the parish that two Eichmonds had already entered
the field. Both were eligible^ mature and distinguished men^ and both
were more popular than in Caroline's opinion they ought to have been.
As she said in her sarcastic manner^ she knew them both too well to have
any illusions about them. ^Ties hommes moyens sensuels/' said she.
Not of course that Caroline's opinion prevented their entrances and
exits in Hill Street at all hours of the day and of the evening being a
subject of comment in the parish. There were those, however, who were
favourably placed to watch the comedy — or ought we to call it farce now
that criticism has grown so sensitive upon the point? — ^who were by no
means enamored of the spectacle. The fair protagonist was so authentic.
However, the gods were looking, as they are sometimes. And the man-
ner in which they contrived to mask their attention was really rather
quaint. They inserted a bee in Andover's cool and sagacious bonnet.
'TMy dear Caroline," said he one morning when he paid a call, *'do
you know I have taken a fancy to have a copy of Grandmother Dorset to
stick in the little gallery in Grosvenor Square ?"
"Humph," said Caroline ungraciously.
'TDon't say Tiumph,' my dear Caroline," said Andover melodiously,
"it makes you look so plain."
"I have never allowed that picture to leave my drawing-room," said
she, "for public exhibition or on any other pretext, and I don't see why
I should do so at this time of day."
'There is no need for it to leave your drawing-room," said Andover
persuasively. "A man can come here to copy it, if you will grant him
the use of the place of a morning."
^T. don't see why," said Caroline, "my drawing-room should be turned
into a painter's studio."
"It is quite a simple matter," Andover explained. "A curtain can
be rigged up and drawn across the canvas and you won't know it's there."
Caroline yielded with reluctance.
"There is a young fellow of the name of Lascelles," said Andover,
"whom I believe to be quite competent to make a respectable copy."
"A Eoyal Academician?" said Caroline.
"God bless me, no !" said Andover. 'The young fellow is only a be-
ginner."
"I fail to see why I should grant the use of my drawing-room," said
Caroline, "to a person who is not a member of the Eoyal Academy. And
what an inferior copy by some wretched dauber will profit you I cannot
imagine."
'The fact is," said Andover with the air of one imparting a state
ARAMENTA 161
secret, "I am going Gainsborough mad. So badly do I want Grandmother
Dorset for Andover House, that if I ean^t have her herself at present, I
intend to have something as near to her as I can get. And in my opinion
this young fellow Lascelles is the very man to make a faithful copy of the
peerless original. He has had the best possible training for color, and
like myself he is a Gainsborough enthusiast.*'
Without further preface James Lascelles found his way to Hill
Street one fine spring morning. He was armed with the tools of his
trade and with a great piece of canvas some eighty-four inches by fifty.
Jim Lascelles was a cheery, healthy young fellow about six feet two,
and undoubtedly a strikingly handsome specimen of the English nation.
How a man of Andover's cool penetration, who rejoiced in such a soimd
working knowledge of things as they are should have fallen so easily and
so blindly into the trap that had been laid for him is one of those mat-
ters upon which only the most inconclusive speculations can avail us.
Doubtless he thought that a young fellow so obscure as Jim, who was as
poor as a mouse and in no way immodest in his ideas, could be trusted
implicitly with such a trifling commission. And doubtless he could have
been, had those persons upstairs played the game. But of course they
don't always; and a man as wise as Andover ought to have known it.
All that Andover condescended to know on this important and wide-
reaching subject was that Jim Lascelles 'Tiadn't a bob in the world,''
and that he was good to his mother. He was not even aware that the
mother of Jim, by some obscure mode of reasoning peculiar to her kind,
felt that Jim was bound to turn out a great genius. Nor was he aware
that on that naif pretext she had pinched and scraped in the most heroic
manner to spare enough from her modest pittance to give Jim three years'
training in Paris in the studio of the world-renowned Monsieur Gillet.
Indeed, there is no reason to believe that Lord Andover had any special
faith in Jim or in his genius. He merely believed that he could entrust
a little commission with perfect safety and with profit to both parties to
a modest, sound-hearted, pleasantly mediocre young fellow.
Now at the hour Jim Lascelles made his first appearance in Hill
Street, that is just about what he was. Sometimes, it is true, he would
have occasional dreams of coming greatness. But he never mentioned
them to anybody, because in his own mind he was convinced that they
were due to having supped later than usual. He troubled very little
about the future. He worked on steadily, striving to pay his way; and if
he never expected to see his ''stuff" on the line in the long room at Bur-
lington House, he did hope sometime to sell it a little more easily and
to get better prices for it from the dealers.
152 "^E FORUM
If he could go once in three years to Kennington Oval to sec Surrey
play the Australians, or could afford a couple of tickets occasionally
for the Chelsea Arts Club Fancy Ball at Covent Garden, or his funds
were sufScient for him to take his mother to the dress circle of a suburban
theatre to see a play that ended pleasantly, and he was always able to
buy as much tobacco as he wanted, he didn^t mind very much that he
worked very hard to earn very little. He argued quite correctly that
many chaps were worse off than Jim Lascelles. He had splendid health
and he had a splendid mother.
No sooner had Mr. Collins received Jim Lascelles on this memorable
forenoon, and the mighty canvas that accompanied him, which was in
the care of two stalwart sons of labor, than the fun really began. In the
first place it was only with infinite contrivance that it was got through
the bine drawing-room door, which fortunately for Jim, and dare we say
for Andover? was part and parcel of a spacious and lofty Georgian
interior. All the same, some sacrifice of white paint was involved
in the process, which was deemed a sacrilege by our old friend Mr.
Collins.
However, our old friend Mr. Collins did not overawe Jim Lascelles as
much as he had a right to expect to, because Jim had been bom and
brought up at the Red House at Widdiford, and he went to quite a good
school before the crash came.
"A shocking bad light,'* said Jim, surveying the aristocratic gloom of
the blue drawing-room as though it belonged to him. 'better stick it
there/'
With considerable hauteur Mr. Collins superintended the rearing of
the unwieldy canvas in the place Jim had indicated. It involved the mov-
ing of the sofa six yards to the left. To do this, in the opinion of Mr. Col-
lins, almost required a special act of parliament. He felt obliged to get
the authority of Mr. Marchbanks before it was moved an inch. Jim,
however, being an autocrat with very modem ideas, cheerfully removed
the sofa himself in Mr. CoUins's absence. When that astonished gentle-
man returned the two stalwart sons of labor were performing their final
duties. Mr. Collins admonished them sternly to be careful where they
put their feet while they fixed up the canvas.
Jim Lascelles was not given to unbridled enthusiasms, but the dis-
covery of Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, by Gainsborough seemed greatly
to disturb him.
'TTe gods !" said Jim, **it is a crime to keep the heritage of the nation
in a light like this/' Jim turned to Mr. Collins. 'T[ say," said he, "can't
you draw those blinds up higher?"
ARAMINTA 153
"No, sir/' said Mr. Collins superciliously, "not without her ladyship's
pemussion.''
"Where is her ladyship ?" said Jim. "Can I see her ?"
"Her ladyship is not at home, sir," said Mr. Collins.
"Well," said Jim briefly but pleasantly, "those blinds will certainly
have to go up higher."
And Jim Lascelles, doubtless to prove to Mr. Collins that he was in
the habit of respecting his own opinion, walked up to the window, un-
loosened the cords and hauled up the Venetian blinds to their uttermost.
Various additional beams of the May sunshine rewarded him.
"Now," said Jim, "perhaps we shall be able to get some sort of an
idea of Gainsborough at his best."
I think it is open to doubt whether Mr. Collins had a feeling for art.
At least, he seemed to evince no desire to obtain an idea of Gainsborough
at his best. For he merely turned his back upon Araminta, Duchess of
Dorset, and incidentally upon Jim Lascelles, and proceeded in quite the
grand manner to shepherd the two sons of labor into the street.
This feat accomplished, Mr. Collins made an official complaint to Mr.
Marchbanks.
'That painting man," said he, "goes on as if the place belonged to
him. I don't know what her ladyship will say, I'm sure."
"Mr. Collins," said that pillar of the Whigs impressively, "if the edu-
cation of the masses does not prove the ruin of this country, Henry
Marchbanks is not my name."
Miss Perry, in her second best frock, the modest blue serge, descended
the stairs.
"Has the painting man come yet?" she inquired.
'TTes, miss, he has," said Mr. Collins with venom and with brevity.
'^o you think I might go in and peep at him," she drawled in her
ludicrous way. "I should so like to see a real painting man painting a
real picture with paints."
"If you obtain her ladyship's permission, I dare say, miss, you may
do 80," said Mr. Marchbanks cautiously.
Miss Perry, however, as is the way of her sex, when her curiosity was
fully aroused was quite capable of displaying a mind of her own.
Miss Perry entered the blue drawing-room noiselessly. There was
the painting man with his hands in his pockets. He was standing with
his back to her, and he was entirely lost in contemplation of the master-
piece he had been commissioned to copy.
"Marvellous !" he could be heard to exclaim at little intervals under
his breath, "marvellous I"
154 THE PORUM
This examination of Gainsborough's masterpiece was terminated long
before it otherwise would have been by the intervention of a drawl of de-
light that, ludicrous as it was, was yet perfectly charming.
"Why it's Jim," said Miss Perry — "Jim Lascelles."
Jim Lascelles turned about with a look of wonder upon his handsome
coimtenance. At first he said not a word; and then he placed both hands
upon the stalwart shoulders of Miss Perry and gave her a sound shaking
of afiEectionate incredulity.
"It is the Goose Girl," said Jim. "You great overgrown thing."
Miss Perry gave what can only be described as a chortle of human
pleasure.
^Why, Jim," said she, "you've got a moustache."
"The Goose Girl," cried Jim, "in the blessed old town of London."
"I've been in London three weeks," said Miss Perry importantly.
"I've been in London three years," said Jim Lascelles sadly. ^T^That
a great overgrown thing. You are taller than I am."
"Oh, no," said Miss Perry, "I am only six feet."
Jim Lascelles declined to be convinced that Miss Perry was not
more than six feet until they had stood back to back to take a measure-
ment.
'TTou are monstrous," said Jim. "Are you as fond of bread and jam
and apples and old boots as you used to be ? Or let me see, was it Doggo
who used to eat old boots in his youth?"
^1l never ate old boots," said Miss Perry with an air of conviction.
^TTes, I remember now," said Jim, "old boots and kitchen chairs were
the only things you didn't eat. I've had many a licking because the
Goose Girl was so fond of apples."
"Have you ever tasted cream bims, Jim ?" said she.
"No," said Jim, "we don't get those refinements at Balham. But tell
me, how is the Muffin girl, and the Polly girl, and the Milly girl, and
Dickie and Charley and all the rest of the barbarian horde? And what is
the Goose Girl doing so far away from Slocum Magna? How has she
found her way into this superlative neighborhood?" The eye of Jim
Lascelles was arrested by Miss Perry's formal blue serge. "(Jovemess,
eh? How funny that the Goose Girl with the brains of a bumble bee
shoidd be turned into a governess."
"Oh, no," said Miss Perry. 'T)idn't you know? I have come to live
with Aunt Caroline."
"Aunt who?" said James.
"Aunt Caroline," said Miss Perry.
"Then she must be one of the grand relations the Polly girl used to
ARAMD9TA 166
boast about, that would never have nothing to do with the family of
Slocnm Magna.''
I hope and trust that neither Aunt Caroline nor Fonto overheard Jim
Lasoellee; in fact there is -every reason to believe that they did not, be-
cause had they done so, it is my firm belief that this history would have
been over almost as soon as it had begun. Yet this was the indubitable
moment that Fonto and his mistress chose to make their entrance into
the blue drawing-room. The instant Jim Lascelles caught sight of the
headdress, the black silk, the ebony walking stick and the obese quadruped
with gargoyle eyes, he checked his discourse and bowed in a very becom-
ing manner.
"Aimt Caroline,'' said Miss Perry with a presence of mind which
really did her the highest credit, "this is Mr. Lascelles who has come to
paint the picture."
The old lady fixed her eyeglass with polar coolness.
"So I perceive," said she.
She looked Jim over as if he himself were a masterpiece by Gains-
borough, and without making any comment she and Fonto withdrew from
the blue drawing-room.
"A singularly disagreeable and ill-bred old woman," said Jim, who
had the unf ortimate habit of speaking his mind freely on all occasions.
"Aunt Caroliae is rather reserved with strangers," said Miss Ferry,
"but she is a dear, really."
"She is not a dear at all," said Jim Lascelles, "and she's not a bit like
one. She is just a proud, disagreeable and unmannerly old woman."
Miss Ferry looked genuinely concerned. For Jim Lascelles was angry
and she felt herself to be responsible for Aunt Caroline. However, there
was one resource left for the hour of affliction.
'TVould you like to see Tobias?" said she. "I've got biTn with me.
I will fetch the sweet."
"What I Is that ferret still alive?" said Jim. 'Ttfy hat 1" And then as
Miss Ferry moved to the drawing-room door, said Jim, "Oh, no, you don't.
Come back and sit there on that sofa if it is quite up to your weight, and
I will show you how to paint a picture."
"What fun," cried Miss Ferry, returning obediently. *T)o you re-
member teaching me how to draw cows?"
"Yes, I do," said Jim Lascelles. "You could draw as good a cow as
anybody I ever saw, and that's the only thing you could do except sit a
horse and handle a ferret and eat bread and jam."
Miss Ferry sat in the middle of the sofa. By force of habit she as-
sumed her most characteristic pose.
^There vss also one other thing jou could do," said Jim LModlea.
'^When you vere not actoallj engaged in eating bread and jam, joa oould
ahrajiait hoajB on end vfth jour finger in jour mouth, thinking hov you
vese going to eat iU*
Jim took up his cfaartoaL
^'Gooae GirV said he, ^it's the oddest thing out. Araminta, Dudieas
of Dorset, had the habit of sticking her pav in her mouth. And 111 take
mj dary her thoughts vere of bread and jam."
''Cream buns are so much nicer," said Miss Perry, sighing gently.
''You have grown a perfect Sybarite since you came to London,"
said Jim. "Nobody ever suspected the existence of cream buns at Slocum
ICsgna."
Suddenly and without any sort of warning something flashed through
Jim Lascelles, and this by some occult means conferred the air and the
look upon him that gets people into encyclopedias.
"Don't move. Goose Girl," said he. "Do you know who has painted
that hair of youm?"
"I don't think it has been painted," said Miss Perry.
"That is all you know," said Jim. "Tour hair has been painted by
the light of the morning."
Jim Lascelles laid down his charcoal and took up the brush that on
a day was to make him famous. He dipped the tip of it in bright yellow
pigment; and although, as all the world knows, the hair of Araminta,
Duchess of Dorset, is unmistakably auburn, Jim began by flinging a
splotch of yellow upon the great canvas.
"Goose Girl," said Jim with a joyous expression that made him ap-
pear preposterously handsome, "I have sometimes felt that if it should
ever be my luck to happen upon a great subject, I might turn out a
painter."
"Your mamma always said you would," said Miss Perry.
"And your papa always said you would marry an earl," said Jim
Lascelles.
Quite suddenly the blue drawing-room vibrated with a note of tri-
umph.
"Oh, Jim I" it said, "I've almost forgotten to tell you about my lilac
frock."
"Have you a lilac frock?" said Jim.
"You remember the mauve that Muffin had ?" said Miss Perry breath-
lessly.
"After my time,'^ said Jim Ijascelles. "But I pity a mauve on the
Bagamuffin."
ARAMTNTA 167
'*Mufl5ii^8 mauve was perfect/' said Miss Perry. **Aiid my lilac is
nearly as nice as Mufl5n*s/'
"Put it on to-morrow/' said Jim. "PU inspect you in it, you great
overgrown thing. Now, don't move the Goose Piece, you Silly. The light
of the morning strikes it featly. Eeally, I doubt whether this yellow be
bright enough."
"Jim/' said Miss Perry, "to-morrow I will show you my new hat."
"Stick your paw in your mouth," said Jim. "And don't dare to take
it out until you are told to. And keep the Goose Piece just where it is.
Think of cream buns."
"They are awfully nice," said Miss Perry.
Jim Lascelles dabbed another fearsome splotch of yellow upon the
great canvas.
"Monsieur Gillet would give his great French soul," said Jim softly,
"for the hair of the foolish Goose Girl whose soul is composed of cream
buns. Ye gods!"
Why James Lascelles should have been guilty of that irrelevant ex-
clamation, I cannot say. Perhaps it was that the young fellow fancied
that he heard the first faint distant crackle of the immortal laughter.
Well, well I we are but mortal ; and who but the gods have made us so ?
CHAPTEB XI
MISS PEBBY IS THE SOUL OF DISCBETION
The next morning at ten o'clock, when Jim Lascelles appeared for
the second time in Hill Street, he was received in the blue drawing-room
by the lilac frock and its wonderful canopy. Jim gave back a step before
the picture that was presented.
"My aunt 1" said he.
"The frock is a sweet," said Miss Perry. 'Isn't it? MuflBn's ^"
"Goose Girl/' said Jim, "you are marvellous."
"I think the hat must flop a little too much," said Miss Perry, "in
places. It makes people turn round to stare at it."
"Of course it does, you foolish person," said Jim, with little guflfaws of
rapture. 'It is an absolute aboriginal runcible hat. How did you come
by it? It seems to me there are deep minds in this."
"Lord Andover chose it," said Miss Perry.
"My noble patron and employer/' said Jim. "It does him infinite
credit. That hat is an achievement."
(
"Aimt Caroline doesn't like it," said Miss Perry. ''Especially in
church.''
''Aunt Caroline is a Visigoth/' said Jim. "Let us forget her. Sit
there, you Goose, where you sat yesterday. And if you don't move and
don't speak for an hour, you shall have a cream bun."
It was bribery, of course, on the part of Jim Lascelles, but Miss Perry
made instant preparation to earn the promised guerdon.
"You are so marvellous," said Jim, "that poor painting chaps ought
not to look at you. Oho ! I begin to have light I b^^ to see where
that lilac arrangement and that incredible headpiece came from. By the
way. Goose Girl, is it possible that Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, is one
of your grand relations ?"
"She is my great-grandmamma," said Miss Perry.
"She must be," said Jim. '^What has old Dame Nature been
doing, I wonder? Copying former successes. And old Sir President
History, E.A., famous painter of genre, repeating himself like one
o'clock."
Jim Lascelles began to sketch the incredible hat with great vigor and
boldness.
"By all the gods of Monsieur Qillet," said Jim, vaingloriously, "they
will want a rail to guard it at the Luxembourg."
Yet Jim was really a modest young fellow. Could it be that already a
phial of the magic potion had been injected into the veins of that sane
and amiable youth?
"Goose Girl," said Jim, "it is quite clear to me that if the Duchess
was your great-grandmamma, Thomas Gainsborough, S.A., was my old
great-granddad. Now, don't move the Goose Piece. She wear-eth a
mar-vel-lous hat!" Jim's charcoal was performing surprising antics.
"Chin Piece quite still. Wonderful natural angle. Can you keep good
if you take your paw out of your mouth ?"
"I wiU try to," said Miss Perry, with perfect docility.
"We will risk it," said Jim. "Keep saying to yourself, 'Only thirty-
five minutes more and I get a cream bun.' "
"Yes, Jim," said Miss Perry, with a remarkable air of intelligence.
"Paws down," said Jim. "Hold 'em thusly. Move not the Chin
Piece, the Young Man said. No, and not the Whole of the White and
Pink and Blue and Yellow Goose Piece neither."
Perhaps it is not strictly accurate to state that Jim dropped into
poetry as he continued the study of his subject. But certainly he in-
dulged in a kind of language which assumed lyrical form.
'Taws down," said Jim. "She approacheth her Mouth Piece upon
ARAMTNTA 159
pain of losmg her Bun. Paw Pieces quite quiet. Move not the Chin
Piece^ the Young Man said.^'
The blue eyes of Miss Perry were open to their limit. They seemed
to devour the slow ticking clock upon the chimney piece. At last virtue
was able to claim its reward.
"Cream bim, please," drawled Miss Perry in a manner that was really
ludicrous.
"It can^t possibly be an hour yet," said Jim.
"It is," said Miss Perry, with great conviction. "It is, honestly/'
"Very good," said Jim. "Young Man taketh Goose Girl's word of
honor." He produced a neat-looking white paper packet from his coat
pocket. "Goose Girl presenteth Paw Piece," said he, "to receive Diploma
of Merit. A short interval for slight but well deserved nourishment."
Miss Perry lost no time in divesting the packet of its trappings. I
don't say positively that her satisfaction assumed an audible form when
she beheld the seductive delicacy of its contents. But it is not imlikely.
At any rate she lost no time in taking a very large bite out of a bun of
quite modest dimensions.
"Jim," said she, "it is quite as nice as the ones that come from
Buszard's."
"It is their own brother," said Jim. "This comes from Buszard's."
'H-E-EeaUy," said Miss Perry, with a doubtful roll of the letter E.
"But those that Gobo brings me are larger."
"They grow more than one size at Buszard's," said Jim. "Gobo is a
bit of a duke, I daresay."
"He is a duke," said Miss Perry.
"If I were a duke," said Jim, "I should bring you the large size.
But as I am only Jim LasceUes, who lives at Balham, you will have to
be content with the small ones."
It may have been that Miss Perry was a little disappointed, because
the small ones only meant a bite and a little one. But she contrived to
conceal her disappointment very successfully. Although brought up in
the country she had excellent breeding.
"Jim," said Miss Perry, "where is Balham?"
"Quite a ducal question," said Jim.
"Is it as far from London as London is from Slocum Magna?" said
Miss Perry.
"I acquit you of arriire pensee/* said Jim. "Here is Lord Andover.
You had better ask him where Balham is."
That nobleman in resplendent morning attire entered with an air that
was fatherly.
]^Q0 THE FORUM
*'I8 it my privilege to make yon known to one another?*' said he with
an air of vast benevolence, '^y'ward. Miss Perry. Mr. Lascelles, the
coming Gainsborough.''
"Oh, I've known Jim — ^" Miss Perry began blnrting, when, it is
grievous to have to inform the gentle reader, that Jim Lascelles dealt
her a stealthy but absolutely unmistakable kick on the shin in quite the
old Widdif ord manner.
"Can you tell me where Balham is?" Miss Perry inquired of Lord
Andover with really wonderful presence of mind. But there was a real
honest tear in her eyes; and tears are known to be an excellent old-fash-
ioned specific for the wits.
"Certainly I can," said he with courtly alacrity. ^TBalham is an out-
lying part of the vast metropolis. It is a most interesting place with
many honorable associations."
"Jim," the luckless Miss Perry was beginning, but happily on this
occasion Jim Lascelles had no need to do more than show her his boot,
while Andover's sense of hearing was by no means so acute as it might
have been; "Mr. Lascelles," Miss Perry contrived to correct herself, '^ves
at Balham."
"Then we are able," said Andover, "to congratidate Mr. Lascelles
and also to congratulate Balham. But tell me, Lascelles, why you live
in an outlying part of the vast metropolis when the centre calls you?"
"We live at Balham," said Jim, "my mother and I, because it is
cheap but respectable."
"A satisfying combination," said Andover. ^T. trust the presence of
my ward. Miss Perry, does not retard the progress of your artistic labors."
"Quite the contrary, I assure you," said Jim, with excellent politeness.
"I am glad of that," said Andover. "But as you may have already
discovered. Miss Perry has quite the feeling for art."
'TTes," said Jim, perhaps conventionally, "I am sure she has."
'It is a very remarkable case of heredity," said Andover. 'Ton see,
my dear Lascelles, Gainsborough painted her great-grandmamma."
"So I understand," said Jim solemnly.
"It is a great pleasure to me, my dear Lascelles," said Andover, "that
Miss Perry's taste in art is so sure. We go to the National Gallery to-
gether, hand in hand as it were, to admire the great Velasquez."
'^Ee is a sweet," said Miss Perry.
"And, my dear Lascelles," said Andover, "we profoundly admire the
great Eembrandt also."
"He is a sweet, too," said Miss Perry.
"And, my dear Lascelles, together we share — ^Miss Perry and I — a
AKAMINTA 161
slight distrust of the permanent merit .of Joseph Wright of Derby. The
fact is Joseph Wright of Derby somehow fails to inspire our confidence.
One can imderstand Joseph Wright of SheflSeld perfectly well ; or even
perhaps — ^mind I do not say positively — Joseph Wright of Nottingham;
but I put it to you, Lascelles, can one accept Joseph Wright of Derby as
belonging to all time?*^
"I agree with you/' said Jim. ^TTet was there not once an immortal
bom at Burton on Trent?''
**I never heard that there was/' said Andover with an air of pained
surprise. "And that is a matter upon which I am hardly open to con-
viction. By the way, Lascelles, which of England's luscious pastures had
the glory of giving birth to your genius?"
As a preliminary measure Jim Lascelles showed Miss Perry his boot.
'T was bom," said Jim modestly, yet observing that the blue eyes
of Miss Perry were adequately fixed on his boot, "at a little place called
Widdiford in the north of Devon."
'Tcs, of course," said Andover graciously; "I ought to have remeih-
bered, as your father and I were at school together. I remember dis-
tinctly that it was the opinion of the fourth form common room that
the finest clotted cream and the finest strawberry jam in the world came
from Widdiford."
"It is almost as nice at Slocum Magna/' said Miss Perry, in spite
of the covert threat that was still lurking in Jim's outstretched boot.
"Quite so," said Andover. "Ha, happy halcyon days of youth, when
the cream was really clotted and the strawberries were really ripe ! But
I seem to remember that Widdiford is remarkable for something else."
Miss Perry was prepared to enlighten Lord Andover, but Jim's boot
rose ferociously.
"Stick paw in Mouth Piece," Jim whispered truculently, "and merely
think of cream buns."
"Widdiford," said Andover, 'let me see. In what connection have
I heard that charmingly poetic name? Ah, to be sure, I remember.
Widdiford is the place at which they have not quite got the railway.
Miss Araminta, is not that the case?"
"Yes," said Miss Perry, "but it is only three miles away."
"And what is the proximity," said Andover, a little dubiously it is
to be feared, "of Widdiford to Slocum Magna?"
"The best part of two miles," said Jim Lascelles, boldly taking the
bull by the horns. "Quite a coincidence isn't it that we should have lived
at the Eed House at Widdiford, and that Miss Perry's papa should have
lived at the Parsonage at Slocum Magna? In fact I seem to remember
182 THE FORUM
Miss Perry or one of her sisters as quite a tot of a girl sitting as good as
pie in the vicarage pew/'
It was here that Jim's boot did wonders. Miss Perry was simply
besieged by voices from the npper atmosphere beseeching her to give the
whole thing away completely. She refrained, however. Her respect for
Jim's boot enabled her to continue sitting as good as pie.
That being the case, let ns offer this original piece of observation for
what it 18 worth. Cream buns are remarkably efficient in some situations,
while an uncompromising right boot is equally efficient in others. To
Jim Lascelles belongs the credit of having assimilated early in life this
excellent truth.
Andover turned to see what progress Jim Lascelles had made with
his labors.
'^eiy good progress, Lascelles," said he. Yet something appeared
to trouble Andover. 'TJpon my word," said he, "either my eyesight be-
trays me or the color of your girl's hair is yellow."
"Is it?" said Jim Lascelles innocently. ^TTes, so it is, as yellow as
the light of the morning."
"The duchess's hair is auburn unmistakably," said Andover.
"Why, yes," said Jim, 'T)ut really don't you think yellow will be
quite as effective?"
Andover gazed at Jim Lascelles in profound astonishment.
"My good fellow," said he, "I hope you understand what you are
commissioned to do. You are commissioned to make a precise and exact
copy of Gainsborough's Duchess of Dorset for Andover House, not to
perpetrate a tour de force of your own. Upon my word, Lascelles, that
hair is really too much. And the set of the hat, as far as one may judge
at present, certainly differs from the original. I am sorry to say so,
Xascelles, but really I think in the interests of all parties you had better
start again."
Jim put his hands in his pockets. Upon his handsome countenance
was a very whimsical if somewhat dubious expression.
'TJord Andover," said he solemnly, "the truth is if I could have
afforded to lose a cool hundred pounds, which I don't mind saying is
more than the whole of what I made last year, I should not have accepted
this commission. As I have accepted it I shall do my best; and if the
results are not satisfactory I shall not look for remuneration."
"Well, Lascelles," said his patron, "that is a straightforward propo-
sition. I daresay it is this confounded French method of looking at
things that has misled you so hopelessly. 'Pon my word I never saw
such hair, and Gillet never saw such hair either. It is enough to make
ARAMINTA 168
Gainsborongh turn in his grave. It is most providential that I hap-
pened to look in. Take a fresh piece of canvas and start again.*^
Jim Lascelles laid his head to one side with a continuance of his
whimsical and dubious air. There was no doubt that the yellow was
extremely bold and that the hair of the duchess was aubum.
Yet what of the cause of the mischief? There she sat on the sofa
in her favorite pose, blissfully unconscious of the trouble she had wrought,
for there could be no doubt whatever that her thoughts were of cream
buns. And further it seemed to Jim Lascelles that there could be no
doubt either that her hair had been painted by the light of the morning.
Andover, however, was too much preoccupied with the duchess to observe
that fact.
'Ttfy dear Miss Araminta,^' said he, "as this is a really fine morning
and this is really the month of May, let us stroll into the park and watch
young England performing maritime feats on the Serpentine. And
after luncheon, if the weather keeps fine, we will go to the circus.**
''What fun r said Miss Perry.
CHAPTER XII
JIM LASCELLES TAKES A DECISIVE STEP
Caroline Crewkeme^s "Wednesdays" had not been so thronged for
many years past. They had been in their heyday twenty years earlier
in the world's history, when the spacious mansion in Hill Street was the
fount of the most malicious gossip to be obtained in London. But the
passing of the years had bereft Caroline of something of her vigor and
of even more of her savoir faire. She had grown difficult and rather out
of date.
However, it had recently been decreed in the interests of human
nature that Caroline Crewkeme should come into vogue again. People
were to be seen at her "Wednesdays*^ who had not been seen there for
years.
There was George Betterton for one. And the worldly wise, of course,
were very quick to account for his presence, and to turn it to pleasure
and profit. Andover and he were both popular men ; and about the third
week in May two to one against George and three to one against Andover
were taken and offered.
"Andover is the prettier sparrer," said students of form, "but Gobo
of course has the weighf
154 ^™® FOKUM
^T. afisure you, my dear/^ said members of another and decidedly in-
fluential section of the public, "the creature is a perfect simpleton. I
assure you she couldn't say ^o !' to a goose. It is inconceivable that
two men as old as they are and in their position should make themselves
so supremely ridiculous. And both of them old enough to be her father.''
"Caroline Crewkeme is behind it all,'' said the philosophic. **Her
hand has lost nothing of its cimning. Beally it is odious to aid and abet
them to make such an exhibition of themselves."
It is regrettable all the same to have to state that the exhibition was
enjoyed hugely. And when the Morning Post announced that on a cer-
tain evening the Countess of Crewkeme would give a dance for Miss
Perry there was some little competition to receive a card for the same.
Cards were liberally dispensed, but when they came to hand many
persons of the quieter and less ostentatious sort found that a little fly
had crept into the ointment. "Fancy dress" was to be seen written at
the top in a style of caligraphy not unworthy of Miss Pinkerton's Acad-
emy for young ladies. Miss Burden had been commanded to do this at
the eleventh hour.
"That man Andover is responsible for this," complained those who
desired neither the expense nor the inconvenience of habiting themselves
in the garb of another age, "because he thinks he looks well in breeches."
That may have been partly the reason ; but in justice to Andover it is
only right to state that unless he had found a weightier pretext to
advance Caroline Crewkeme would never have assented to this somewhat
eccentric condition. Indeed it was only after a heated argument between
them that Andover contrived to get his way.
'Ton must always be flamboyant and theatrical," grunted Caroline,
"at every opportunity. All the world knows you look well in breeches."
'*I protest, my dear Caroline," said the mellifluous Andover, "it is
merely mj desire to put another plume in your helmet. The creature
will look ravishing as Araminta, Duchess of Dorset. Pelissier shall come
this afternoon to copy the picture de haut en las/*
"It has been copied once already," said Caroline.
"Oh, no," said Andover. 'It supplied an idea or two merely. When
you see it in every detail precisely as Gainsborough saw it you will
observe the difference."
'Teople must be as sick of the picture as I am by this time," said
Caroline.
"Nonsense," said Andover. "They are only just beginning to realize
that you've got a picture."
Let it not be thought an injustice to Andover if one other motive is
ARAMTNTA 165
advanced for his insistence upon a somewhat singular course. When the
cards of invitation had been duly issued he rather let the cat out of
his bag. ! ' t ' '^^^
"Of course, Caroline, you would be obstinate,'* said he, ''and have
your own way about that fellow (Jeorge Betterton, but you know as well
as I do that in any kind of fancy clothes he looks like a boa constrictor/'
At first Andover professed himself as unable to decide whether he
should appear as Charles II or as John Wesley. In the end, however, he
decided in favor of the former. Miss Burden had not been so excited for
years. The subject filled her thoughts day and night for a whole week
after the momentous decision was taken. She then submitted tiie pe-
culiarly difiicult problem one day to his lordship at luncheon.
"Not a problem at all,'' said he. "Simplest thing in the world, my
dear lady. There is only one possible person you can go as."
"I had been thinking of Mary, Queen of Scots," said Miss Burden,
hardly daring to hope that Lord Andover would give his sanction.
"Mary, Queen of Who ?" snarled Caroline.
"No, my dear Miss Burden," said the eminent authority, "the only pos-
sible person you can go as is Katharine of Aragon."
"Nonsense, Andover," said Caroline, "I shall not permit Burden to
appear in any such character. A Jane Austen spinster will be far more
appropriate and far less expensive."
"My dear Caroline," said Andover, "how it would help everybody, if
you did not insist on airing your views upon matters of art. Do you wish
Miss Burden to forfeit entirely her natural distinction?"
Miss Burden blushed most becomingly at his lordship's remark.
"I was not aware that she had any," said the ruthless Caroline.
"Upon my word, Caroline," said Andover, "even I begin to despair of
you. I assure you. Miss Burden is quite one of the most distinguished
looking women of my acquaintance."
Miss Burden looked almost as startled as a faun. Andover had never
seen her display so much color as when he made her a little bow to attest
his lona fides. It was rather a pity that his smile unconsciously resembled
that of a satyr; not, however, that it really mattered, for although the
ever-observant Caroline duly noted it Miss Burden did not.
"It is twenty-five minutes past two. Lord Andover," said Miss Perry,
putting a sugar plum in her mouth, "and you have promised to take me
to the circus."
"Andover," said the old lady, "I forbid you to do anything of the
kind. To spend three afternoons a week at a circus is outrageous."
"They are so educational," said Andover. "Develop the mind. Show
/
Igg THE FORUM
how intelligence can be inculcated into the most unlikely things. Horses
good at arithmetic, dogs playing whist, cats indulging in spiritualism.
Very educational indeed. Clown imitating monkey in lifelike manner.
Illustration of the origin of species. One more sugar plum, my dear Miss
Araminta, and then Marchbanks will summon a hansom.''
"Gobo is going to take me to the Horse Show to-morrow," Miss Perry
announced.
'TVho, pray, is Gobo?" Aunt Caroline and Lord Andover demanded in
one breath.
"He asked me to call him Gobo,'' said Miss Perry, helping herself
calmly to sugar plums, "and I asked him to call me Gtoose.'*
Andover's countenance was unmistakably a study. The same might
be said of that of Aunt Caroline.
"My dear young lady," said Andover, "this must not be. One of the
most dangerous men in London. Really, Caroline, you must forbid that
old ruffian the house. As for the Horse Show to-morrow it is clearly out
of the question."
"I promised Gobo," said Miss Perry. "And I don't like to break a
promise, do you?"
*TMy dear young lady," said Andover, "you are much too young and
inexperienced to make a promise, let alone to keep one. I speak as I
feel sure your papa would do were he in my place, and as I know I should
do were I in the place of your papa. Your aimt is quite of that opinion;
I speak for her also. You must not call that man Gobo, he must not
call you Goose, and as for the Horse Show it is out of the question."
'*But everybody calls me Goose," said Miss Perry, *T)ecause I am
rather a Sillay."
"Caroline," said Andover with much gravity, "if you will take the
advice of your oldest friend you will forbid that man the house. My
dear Miss Araminta, let us try to obliterate a very disagreeable impression
by spending a quietly educational afternoon at the circus."
When on the morning of the great day of the fancy ball. Miss Perry
entered the presence of Jim Lascelles as the faithful embodiment, down to
the minutest particular, of Gainsborough's masterpiece, that assiduous
young fellow was seized with despair. It took the form of a gasp.
"(Joose Girl," said he, '*! shall have to give up coming here. I paint
you all the morning, I think of you all the afternoon and evening, and I
dream of you all night. You know you have rather knocked a hole in my
little world."
'There will be ices to-night," said Miss Perry. 'Tjord Andover almost
thinks pink ices are nicest."
ARAMrNTA 167
"Confound Lord Andover,** said Jim with unpardonable bluntness,
*^and confound pink ices."
'*I thought I would just put on my new frock," said Miss Perry,
"to see if you think it is as nice as you think the lilac is."
'T have no tiioughts at all this morning," said Jim Lascelles, "about
your new frock or about anything else. My mind is a chaos, my wretched
brain goes round and roimd, and what do you suppose it is because of?"
'*I don't know," said Miss Perry.
"It is because of you," said Jim Lascelles. ^Tjook at that canvas
yotfve ruined. Yellow hair — runcible hat — ^lilac frock — full-fledged
cream bun appearance. You will lose me my commission, which means a
cool hundred pounds out of my pocket, and my mamma has denied her-
self common necessaries to pay for my education. Goose Girl," Jim Las-
celles concluded a little hoarsely, f*I am growing afraid of you. You are
a sorceress. Something tells me that you will be my ruin."
'T[ wish you had seen MuflBn's mauve," said Miss Perry, who showed
very little concern for Jim's ruin.
'T! have not the least desire to see Muffin's mauve," said Jim Las-
celles. 'TEn fact, I thank the God who looks after poor painters, if there
is such a Deity, which I take leave to doubt, that I have not seen it. But
I intend to ask you this question. What right have you, Goose Girl, to
grow so extravagantly perfect, to get yourself up in this ravishing and en-
trancing manner, and then to come to ask a poor wight of a painting
chap who is daubing away for dear bread and butter, whether he thinks
your new frock is as nice as the lilac was?"
"MuflBn's mauve — ^" said Miss Perry.
• "Answer me," said Jim sternly. ^TTou can't. You are a sorceress.
You are a weaver of spells. Well, it so happens that I am susceptible to
them. I am going to take a decisive step. Goose Girl, it is my intention
to kiss you."
Without further preface or ado Jim Lascelles stepped toward Miss
Perry with extended arms and eyes of menace. He hugged her literally,
new frock and all, in the open light of the morning; and further he gave
her one of the most resounding busses that was ever heard in that digni-
fied apartment.
"Get rid of that if you are able," said he brazenly. "And now sit
there as good as pie while I put that new gown upon canvas."
Miss Perry did as she was told in a manner that rather implied that
she approved decidedly of the whole proceedings.
"Goose Girl," said Jim, attacking the canvas, "you will either make
me or mar me. Sometimes I feel it might be the former, but more often
I am convinced it will be the latter."
168
THE FORUM
'^MnflSn's mauve cost a lot of money," said Miss Perry.
'Taws down," said Jim. 'The question now for gods and men is.
Can that hair and that frock live together?"
Jim took up a little looking-glass and turned his back upon the can-
vas. He sighed with relief.
'TTes, they can by a miracle," said he. "And yet they out-Gillet
Gillet."
''What will you be to-night, Jim?" asked Miss Perry.
"Achilles," said Jim, "sulking in my tent."
"Where will you put your tent?" said Miss Perry. "One can't dance
in a tent. And what will you do when you are sulky?"
"Gnash my teeth," said Jim, "and curse my luck."
"I will dance with you twice if you would like me to," said Miss Perry
with charming friendliness.
"I shall not be there," said Jim, whose studied unconcern was rather
a failure.
"Not be there 1" said Miss Perry with consternation.
"Aunt Caroline has not axed me," said Jim.
It was some kind of solace to Jim Lascelles that dismay and incre-
dulity contended upon the usually calm and unruffled countenance of Miss
Perry.
"Miss Burden has forgotten you," said she. "I must speak to her."
Miss Perry rose for that purpose.
"Sit down, you Goose," Jim commanded her. "Don't speak a word
about it to anybody, unless you want to get me sacked from the house.
I am here on sufferance, a poor painting chap copying a picture to get
bread and cheese; and this ball to-night is being given by the Coimtess of
Crewkeme for her niece. Miss Perry."
"But, Jim "
"(loose Girl," said Jim, "keep Mouth Piece immovable. Move not
the Chin Piece, the Young Man said. Think of cream buns."
"But, Jim—" said Miss Perry.
CHAPTER XIII
HIGH REVEL IS HELD IN HILL STREET
All the same Miss Perry did not dance twice with Jim Lascelles that
evening. For Jim took his mother to a theatre at Brixton, to witness a
performance of that excellent old-world comedy. She Stoops to Con-
quer.
ARAMINTA 169
He did not appear to enjoy it much. He hardly laughed once and
his mother remarked it.
^'What is the matter, laddie?'' said she. It ought to he stated that
Jim's mother was absurdly young to be the mother of a great hulking
fellow like Jim.
'T?here is a great overgrown girl ia my head/' said he, "who is above
me in station.*'
*Tliat Goose," said Jim's mother, a little contemptuously it is to be
feared.
"Si, Signora," said Jim. "She is turning my brain rather badly."
iNTot unnaturally Jim's mother was amused that Jim should be so
serious.
*T;f only I had enough money to buy back the Bed House at Widdi-
f ord," sighed Jim, '*! believe I could cut out them all."
"She was never able to resist the orchard, and the south wall, and the
strawberry beds," Mrs. Lascelles agreed.
'*! never saw such a creature," said Jim. "Those Gainsborough
frocks and those runcible hats are maddening."
^TV^ell, laddie," said Jim's mother, "you must paint her and make her
and yourself famous."
"She is famous already," said Jim. 'TV^orse luck. She is a nine
days' wonder in Mayf air and certain to marry a duke."
"That Goose 1" said Jim's mother.
^TTes," said Jim, "it sounds ridiculous, but it is perfectly true."
^'Well, laddie," said Jim's mother, who believed profoundly in Jim,
"just paint her and see what comes of it."
While Jim Lascelles lay that night with his head on his arm, dreaming
of the Goose Girl, high revel was held at the house of Caroline Crewkeme
in Hill Street, W. All ages and both sexes were gathered in the garb of
their ancestors in the spacious suite of rooms on the second floor. From
the moment that the first seductive strains were put forth by Herr
Blaum's Green Viennese Band, and his Excellency the Illyrian Ambassa-
dor in the guise of Henri Quatre, or the Duke of Buckingham — ^nobody
was quite sure which — accompanied by Diana of Ephesus, a bread and
butter miss, who looked much too young to be a duchess, went up the
carpetiess blue drawing-room, which seemed at least three times the size
it did on ordinary occasions, as indeed was the case, there was no doubt
that Caroline Crewkeme was going to have a great success.
It is not easy to know whether Bed Cross Knights, Cardinal Biche-
lieus, Catherines de Medici, and those kinds of people are susceptible of
thrills, but there was one unmistakably when George Betterton in the
l^jQ THE FOBUM
character of a Gentleinan of the Georgian Era took the floor with Ara-
minta^ Duchess of Dorset^ by Gainsborough, upon his arm.
The less responsible spirits directed their gaze to Charles II. He was
engaged in amiable converse with his hostess, who habited in an Indian
shawl> the gift of her sovereign, and a jewelled turban presented to her
by the Shah of Persia during his last visit to this country, together with
the insignia of the Spotted Parrot duly displayed round her neck, made
in the opinion of many a very tolerable representation of a Heathen
Deity. As a Gentleman of the Georgian Era and Araminta, Duchess of
Dorset, by Gainsborough, came down the room in a somewhat inharmoni-
ous manner, owing to the decidedly original ideas of the form^ in regard
to the art he was practising, the amiable and agreeably cultivated voice of
Charles II soared easily above the strains of the waltz and the frou
frou of the dancers.
'TTes,'' said that monarch, "the Georgian Era is suflSciently obvious,
but can anybody tell me what has happened to the Gentleman?''
The Georgian Era went its victorious way, however, gobbling de-
cidedly, perspiring freely, holding Gkdnsborough's Duchess in a grip of
iron, and slowly but surely trampling down all opposition with the greatest
determination. When with coxcomb ensanguined, but with a solemn
gobble of triumph, he came back whence he started, a slight but well-de-
fined murmur of applause was to be heard on every hand.
"Georgian Era wins in a canter," one of the knowing fraternity could
be heard to proclaim, ^^vens, Gobo against the field."
^^uchess," said the Georgian Era with a bow to his fair partner, who
looked as cool as a cucumber, "you deserve an ice."
'TTcs," said Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, with grave alacrity, "a pink
one, please."
'TSad form," said the Second Charles, "decidedly a breach of man-
ners to address her as duchess in the circumstances. But what can one
expect of the Georgian Era 1"
The Merry Monarch with the unmistakable air of the master of the
ceremonies, as indeed he was, proceeded to lead out Katharine of Aragon,
who was seen to great advantage, such was her natural distinction, and
who was that ill-fated queen to the manner bom.
'*Humph," said the Heathen Deity, "for a bom fool she dances very
well."
The Second Charles danced like a rather elderly angel with wings.
The young people also were enjoying themselves. Eligible young men,
and not a single one of the other kind had gained admittance, had each
his dance with the fair Araminta, or the fair Daphne, or the fair Evadne,
ARAMINTA 171
or the fair Sweet Ndl of Old Drury. Of course, Gainsborough's master-
piece really brooked no rival, except the great canvas in the left-hand
corner, which in the full glare of the electric lights seemed to do her
best to dispute the supremacy of her youthful descendant.
^'Yellow hair knocks spots ofE the auburn,'' said an Eldest Son to the
Lynx-Eyed Dowager to whose apron he was very carefully tied.
"A matter of taste," was the rejoinder. ^TTellow is never a safe color,
and it is well known that it means doubtful antecedents. They are be-
ginning the lancers. Go, Pet, and find Mary."
Pet, who was six feet five, and had leave from Knightbridge Barracks
imtil five A.U., claimed the Watteau Shepherdess, a real little piece of
Dresden China, who had f oriy-six thousand in land, and thirty-six thou-
sand in consols, and would have more when Uncle William permanently
retired from the cavalry; and who was perfectly willing to marry Pet, or
any one else, if her mamma only gave her permission to do so.
Charles II sat out the supper dance with the fair Araminta.
^^Miss Goose," said that sagacious monarch, ^'never dance the dance
before supper if you can possibly avoid it. You will live longer, you
will be able to do ampler justice to whatever fare may be forthcoming,
you will also be able to get in before the squash, and if the quails run
short, as is sometimes the case, it won't matter so much as it otherwise
might do."
As far as the Merry Monarch was concerned, however, the precautions
against the squash and the possibility of the quails running short were
wholly superfluous. The pleasantest corner of the best situated table had
been reserved for him hours before, and all his favorite delicacies had been
duly earmarked.
"Miss Goose," said the Merry Monarch, "have you had an ice yet ?"
*T; have had seven/^ said Araminta, Duchess of Dorset.
"Ptni; ones?" asked the Second Charles.
"Five were pink," said the Duchess, "one was yellow and one was
green. But I think that pink ones are almost the nicest."
"I concur," said the Second Charles.
After supper, before dancing was resumed, some incautious person,
after gazing upon Gainsborough's masterpiece and subjecting it to some
admiring if unlearned remarks, pulled aside the crimson curtain which
hid from view Jim Lascelles's half finished copy.
"Oho," said the incautious one in a loud voice, "what have we here !
To be sure a Sargent in the making. Only Sargent could paint that
hair."
The attention of others was attracted.
172 ^™^ FOKUM
^'I should say it is a Whistler/' said a second critic.
'^A Sargent decidedly/' said a third. *'Only he could paint that hair.''
"It is high art, I daresay/' said a fourth, '1)ut isn't it rather extrava-
gant ?"
**!£ Gillet were in London," said critic the fifth, who had more in-
struction than the others, "I should say it was Gillet. As he is not, it
might be described as the work of a not unskilful imitator."
Andover stood listening.
^^t is the work of a young chap named Lascelles," said he, ''the
coming man, I'm told."
Nobody had told Andover that Jim Lascelles was the coming man,
and not for a moment did he believe that he was; but he was a member of
that useful and considerable body which derives a kind of factitious im-
portance from the making of imposing statements. He felt that it re-
acted upon his own status to announce that a young chap named Lascelles
was the coming man, when not a soul had heard of the young chap in
question.
'1 must remember the name," said a broad-jowled marquis
from Yorkshire, who had come up in time to hear Andover's stat-
ement, and who greatly preferred to accept the judgment of others in
the fine arts rather than exercise his own. "I should like him to paint
Priscilla."
''The very man to paint Priscilla," said Andover with conviction.
And this, be it written to Andover's credit, was genuine good nature.
"What is the subject?" said the first critic.
"Why, can't you seel" said a chorus. "It is Caroline Crewkeme's
Gainsborough."
"Which of 'em?"
"The yellow-haired one, of course."
Andover screwed his glass in his eye. He had been the first to detect
that the color of the hair was yellow, and yet for some strange reason the
solution of the mystery had not until that moment presented itself to him.
"What damned impertinence 1" said he.
"Anybody been treading on your corns, Andover?" asked several per-
sons.
"Not exactly," said Andover. "But do you know I commissioned
that fellow Lascelles to make a copy of Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, for
Andover House."
"And he copies the wrong Araminta!" came a shout of laughter.
There was really no need to shout, but immediately after supper that is
the sort of thing that happens sometimes. "A good judge, too."
ARAMINTA 173
^'Gross impertinence," said Andover. "I think I shall be quite justi-
fied in repudiating the whole transaction."
"Quite, Andover," said the marquis with a very obvious wink at the
company and preparing to jest in the somewhat formidable Yorkshire
manner. "But it is easily explained. Young fellow got a little mixed
between Gainsborough's Araminta, Duchess of Dorset, and Nature's Ara-
minta, Duchess of Lancaster. Very natural mistake, what ?"
The arrival upon the scene of the Georgian Era and the Heathen
Deity, the latter walking quite nimbly with very littie aid from her
stick, set the circle of art critics in further uproar.
^*Who pulled aside the curtain ?" demanded the mistress of the house.
"Andover, I suspect you."
"It is my picture, anyhow," said Andover coolly, although he felt the
game was rather going against him.
"It is not at all clear to my mind that it is your picture," said the
sharp-witted Caroline to the delight of everybody. ^TTou send a man to
copy my Gainsborough, and he copies my niece."
"A very natural error," said the marquis, "as we have just explained
to Andover."
The Georgian Era was seen to grow uneasy. He began to fumble in
his Georgian costume. Obviously, he was not quite sure where the pockets
were. At last, however, he was able to produce a pair of spectacles which
he proceeded to adjust.
'^ery good likeness," said he heavily. "Caroline, when the picture is
finished, I should like to purchase it for the Cheadle Collection."
A salvo of laughter greeted this speech, but to laughter the speaker
was constitutionally oblivious.
"The picture is not Caroline's, my dear George," said Andover. '*The
young fellow is painting it on my commission."
"Excellent likeness," said George tenaciously. "I shall make you a
fair offer, Andover, for the Cheadle Collection."
^T. am sorry, my dear George, for the sake of the Cheadle Collection,"
said Andover amiably, 'T)ut that picture is not for sale."
^TTou are quite right, Andover," said Caroline Crewkeme, "the pic-
ture is not for sale. I gave permission for a copy to be made of my
Gainsborough, not of my niece."
"It appears to be a question of copyright," said a wit.
'T[ hold the copyright in both at present," said Caroline in an exceed-
ingly grim manner.
The strains of the dance began to float through the room. The
yoimger section of the company had again taken their partners; a brace
174 '^^^ VOBXJU
of rojalties had arriTed, yet in spite of that jest and connter-jest were in
the air.
^Andorer was never in it from the Btart," said the maiqaiSy ^ yon
want my candid opinion."
The Inckier he/* said the first critic. ''What does any man want with
a girl who hasn't a son, a conntiy parson's danghter?"
Wealthy, I should say^'' said critic the second. ''Comes of a Teiy
good stock on the mother's side/'
'TTc-cs/' said a third. 'TJsefnl/'
''Finest looking girl in England/' said a fourth.
"They can both afford to marry her/' said the marquis, "and I will
lay the odds that the better man of the two does."
"AndoTer gets her in that case."
"Qobo for a monkey."
All the time, however, in Another Place, the Master of the Bevels —
but after all, that is no concern of ours.
{To he continued)
THE DEBIT
BY WITTER BYNNEB
WiiBTHEB a marigold or this our love.
There is no origin of things that are
But aims its orbit at a final star.
From dust of marigolds a wedding-ring
May form, or golden spheres may sing;
And so, though sundered by the sea and land.
Or stopped by the unalterable bar.
We still unsundered and unstopped shall move
And carry out the orbit hand in hand.
Witter Bynner.
LITERATURE
ALFRED NOTES ON WILLIAM MOEEIS^
The latest contribution to the valuable English Men of Letters Series
is a monograph on the poet William Morris by the poet Alfred Noyes.
As a revelation of the poetic mind the book is disappointing, for the rea-
son that, although it contains quite a deal of Morris, it contains scarcely
any of Noyes. This is not due solely to a deliberate and tactful reticence
on the part of the yoimg poet in the presence of an elder; it is due rather
to a lack of emotional sympathy between the poet who is writing and the
poet he is writing about. After reading the volume, one is inclined to
regret that Mr. Noyes was not allowed to write about Tennyson instead,
and that Morris was not assigned to some other biographer. Concerning
Morris Mr. Noyes speaks with a certain cold justness and conscientious
fairness: he praises him highly, but without eagerness; he estimates him
truthfully, but without enjoyment. Every now and then, for purposes of
comparison, Mr. Noyes introduces a quotation from Tennyson; and no
sooner has he transcribed the lines than his mind kindles with a sudden
glow which illuminates an entire page of appreciation of the Laureate,
during which, of course, the author quite forgets that he is really writing
about "the idle singer of an empty day.^* The reason why the best pas-
sages in this critical biography of Morris are the passages that deal with
Tennyson is that only in the latter has Mr. Noyes so far forgotten him-
self as to reveal himself. The eagerness, the glow, the spirit, and the
zest of which Mr. Noyes has given beautiful expression in, his own poems
are nowhere else apparent in the present critical study. Elsewhere we
feel a rather laborious restraint, — the pallor of a glowing mind in the
presence of an uncongenial subject. The trouble was not that Mr. Noyes
was lacking in critical appreciation, but that William Morris was not
his man. One might have judged this in advance from reading Mr.
Noyes^s poems, in which, while the influence of Tennyson is ever domi-
nant, it is possible to discern traces of sympathy with Mr. Swinburne and
Bossetti, Keats and Blake, but in which it is impossible to discern any
echo whatever of Morris.
Prom this lack of sympathy between the writer and his subject
^WiUiam Morris, By Alfred Noyes. English Men of Letters, New York:
The Macmillan Company.
X76 '^^^^ FOBUM
ariflee^ coriously, the most meritorious feature of Mr. NoyeB'B study, as
well as its preponderant defects. This feature is the techniffll criticism of
Morris's narrative verse. Mr. Noyes shows that Morris's style of writing
has no place whatever in the historical evolution of English verse^ — ^that,
in the technical sense^ it is not Victorian Knglish verse at alL Gonoem-
ing this point he says:
Of the principles of elision and syllabic equivalence, and the advantages not
only of sound and movement, but of compression, conciseness, and brevity to be
derived therefrom, Morris was quite careless. Very often his lines appear to be
a mere succession of monosyllabic prepositions and pronouns. . . • His lines
are thin threads, he cares not how thin. Tennyson might compress twenty or
more syllables into a pentameter: Morris very rarely exceeds the ten, and very
thin ones at that. He often seems in this regard to be deliberately aiming at an
idea directly opposite to that of all the other poets, and to be deliberately drawing
out his lines to their utmost tenuity. . . . Their tenuity or lack of syllabic
weight leads, or should lead, the reader to render them syllable by syllable, with
something of the slowness of a child spelling them out.
This sort of technical criticism is all the more valuable because it is made
by a poet who has reared himself in the more traditional school. In fact,
throughout the book^ the technical points are all well taken, — ^though one
may be inclined, perhaps, to disagree with the high estimate with which
the writer regards the hexameters of Sigurd the VoUung.
The book is insufficient, not in its criticism of Morris the writer of
verse, but in its revelation of Morris the man. It is less successful in its
narrative than in its expository passages. Many things are told about
Morris; but the man himself is not set living before the reader's mind.
One of the main purposes of biography is to recreate personality, — ^to tell
not so much what a man did as who he was; and personality is the main
thing that is lacking in Mr. Noyes's volume. It is a record instead of
being a history.
The truth about Morris seems to be that he was a veiy simple man
who had the misfortune to be bom in a very complex age. With him
simplicity was synonymous with beauty, and complexity with ugliness.
His nature demanded simplicity and beauty as the very breath of life.
Since be could not find them in the world about him, he dwelt instinctively
in an imagined world of his own creation. This world, because of a love
which he developed at an early age for many of the mediaeval arts, be-
came at first a fabled middles-ages. His manifold activities were all at-
tempts to tell to others the aspect of the world he lived in. His poetry,
his decoration, his many-sided craftsmanship, were all expressions of the
same simple sincerity of spirit, abhorrent of extravagance and display.
Later in his life, he began to wonder if his dream-world might not be
LITERATURE JYY
made actual as well as real. Hence his recourse to socialism, — which,
however insignificant it may seem when looked at in the light of practical
politics, is exceedingly important when considered as a revelation of the
poet^s yearning for an earthly paradise. Later still, when Morris saw
that socialism was incapable of practical fulfilment, he took refuge in an
impossible Utopia, — out of Space, out of Time, — ^the dream-worid of the
later prose romances. No poet ever understood himself better than he ; and
the truest word about him is said in his own prologue to The Earthly Para-
dise,— ^that monumental work wherein he strove ''to build a shadowy isle
of bliss midmost the beating of the steely sea, where tossed about all
hearts of men must be.*' It is fitting that any consideration of William
Morris, however cursory and brief, should close with these self -revealing
stanzas:
The heavy trouble, the bewildering care
That weighs us down who live and earn our bread.
These idle verses have no power to bear;
So let me sing of names remembered,
Because they, living not, can ne'er be dead.
Or long time take their memory quite away
From us poor singers of an empty day.
Dreamer of dreams, bom out of my due time.
Why should I strive to set the crooked straight?
Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme
Beats with light wing against the ivory gate,
Telling a tale not too importunate
To those who in the sleepy region stay.
Lulled by the singer of an empty day.
Walter Clayton.
THE EEMINISCENT CALL^
Certainly since Mr. Kipling wrote Stalky and Company no book
dealing with school life has appeared of as much significance as Mr. Owen
Johnson^s The Eternal Boy. And in writing this the reviewer is not
forgetting Mr. Horace Vachell's The Hill, that very charming, although
rather lugubrious, story of life at Harrow. Indeed, from an American
point of view. The Eternal Boy may be regarded as striking an entirely
new note. Now and again there is a furtive glimpse of heartache and
tragedy, but the dominant tone is one of rollicking humor. Keal humor
in stories of school life is rare. Stalky and Company contained humor
^The Eternal Boy. Being the Story of the Prodigious Hickey. By Owen
Johnson. New York: Dodd, Mead and Company.
1Y8 ^™^ FOKUM
of a Kipliiigesque sort, but it was so essentially British that it oonld
never appeal strongly to American readers. In Tom Brown at Rugby
there are unquestionably droll passages, but the whole book (justly one
of the first chapters in the code of life) leaves the impression of a grim
though kindly sermon. Deep as is Mr. Vachell's love as an old Harrovian
for the "school on the hilF' he cannot quite expunge the memory of
certain evils and brutalities which have always been features of British
public school life. Consequently, into the most reverent of his pages
there creeps an occasional suggestion of cynical bitterness.
But from Mr. Johnson's book this indescribable gloom is absent. The
American schoolboy, at heart, may be much the same as his English
cousin; there may be injustice and evil at Andover, and Exeter, and
Lawrenceville, and St. Paul's, and Groton, just as there are at Eton, and
Rugby, and Harrow; Mr. Johnson not only ignores the sinister side, but
seems to have succeeded in his intention of forgetting it entirely. His
schoolboy is far from being the most earnest or conscientious of creatures.
His mind is not occupied with thoughts of his duty to his parents and his
masters, but to the gridiron and the diamond, to the pleasures of plotting,
and the joys of the "Jigger Shop." In the chapter entitled '*Mr. Bald-
win's Political Education," an old master gives some sound advice to a
new master with theories.
When you've lived with the young, human animal as long as I have, you
won't have any illusions. He doesn't want to be enlightened. He hasn't the slight-
est desire to be educated. He isn't educated. He never will foe. His memory
simply retains for a short while, a larger and larger number of facts — ^Latin,
Greek, history, mathematics, it's all the same — ^facts, nothing but facts. He re-
members when he is compelled to, but he is supremely bored by the performance.
All he wants is to grow, to play and to get into sufficient mischief. My dear
fellow, treat him as a splendid young savage, who breaks a rule for the joy of
matching his wits against yours, and don't take him seriously, as you are in
danger of doing. Don't let him take you seriously or he will lead you to a
cropper.
Such, in a nutshell, is the American boy as he appears in these annals.
That The Eternal Boy happens to have Lawrenceville as a concrete
backgroimd is of no particular significance. The alumnus of Exeter or
Andover may read in his own school just as well. A dozen different
stories involving twice as many heroes are told in the course of the
chronicle. Hungry Smeed breaks the great pancake record for the honor
of Dickinson. Smith yearns for a nickname and wins it in a strange and
unexpected manner. Snorky Green, in a fine day dream, humiliates the
Princeton Varsity nine, hurls an invading (Jerman army into the Atlantic,
becomes the greatest of Presidents, sees himself struck down by the hand
LITERATURE 179
of a fanatic^ and sheds tears in sympathy with the inconsolable nation
mourning at his funeral bier. But above all is Hickey, the Prodigious
Hiekey, who gives cohesion to the whole, whose dominant personality
welds what otherwise might be a series of adventures into a concrete
narrative. From first to last Hickey's hand, like that of an amiable
ApoUyon, is raised against the reigning powers. Always he is matching
his wits against theirs, and always is he triumphant. That he should be
suspected rouses in his breast a sense of injustice. He feels himself to
be an object of persecution, a martyr, and his protest takes the form of
fresh plots of gorgeous ingenuity. Verily, unique is Hickey, magnificent
even in his downfal].
If one^s outlook upon life be that of the Prodigious Hickey, and
Hungry Smeed, and the Gutter Pup, and Lovely Mead, and the Tri-
umphant Egg Head, and those other heroes of Mr. Johnson's narrative —
in a word, the outlook of an American schoolboy somewhere between fifteen
and twenty years of age — The Eternal Boy will be read for its action, its
fun, its sheer gaiety of animal spirits. But if one has gone beyond that,
''come to thirty year,*' let us say, the story's greatest charm will lie in its
reminiscent call. The grown-up boy will laugh just as heartily oyer the
Napoleonic exploits of the Prodigious One, and the achievements of Old
Ironsides and Goat Phillips; but in the mirth there will be an underlying
note of sadness, a wistful regret for that first youth irrevocably gone.
There will perhaps come to him in reading, as they came to the present
writer, those beautifully simple and sincere lines which Thackeray penned
as a 'Tinis" to Dr. Birch and his Young Friends:
Good night. I'd say the griefs, the joys
Just hinted in this mimio page,
The triiunphs and defeats of boys.
Are but repeated in our age.
Fd say your woes were not less keen,
Your hopes more vain, than those of men.
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen
At foriy-five played o'er again.
I'd say we suffer and we strive
Not more nor less as men than boys,
With grizzled beards at forty-five
As erst at twelve in corduroys.
And if, in time of sacred youth,
We learned at home to love and pray.
Pray heaven, that early love and truth
May never wholly pass away.
Arthur Bartlett Maurice.
180 THE FOKUH
THE PBICE OP POPULARITY*
BT PHILIP TILUNGHAST
On the qnestion of popular jndgment in art and literatnre, Mr. Bus-
kin has said very nearly the ultimate word when he points out that it is
illogical to expect the opinions of a crowd to be correct, when the opin-
ions of each individual in that crowd are probably wrong. Black is not
made white by calling it so, and the mere fact that a mob of a thousand
are simultaneously shouting their mistake does not make it one shade
the whiter than a single voice. This is why, when an author of real ar-
tistic worth and delicacy of style, after being persistently ignored by
the general public suddenly receives the popular vote, it is the part of
wisdom to question seriously whether his later work has not fallen away
rather seriously from his earlier standards. And this is precisely
the case of Mr. W. J. Locke, author of The Morals of Marcus Or-
deyne. The Beloved Vagabond, and — ^the anticlimax is his, not ours —
Sepiitnus,
Let us consider briefly just what Mr. Locke has achieved, how he has
achieved it, what he stands for in contemporary fiction. To any one
asking these questions two years ago, the answer would have been that
Mr. Locke did not consider himself primarily a man of letters; that he
was, on the contrary, known to the world chiefly through his chosen pro-
fession and more especially his post of honor as Secretary of the Boyal
Institute of British Architects; and that his novel-writing was mainly
a relaxation, an avenue of escape from the daily routine, a method of en-
joying vicariously a certain blythe and irresponsible Bohemianism which
the actual conditions of his own life and environment rendered impossible
at first hand. One feels, through all those whimsical, inimitable, often-
times uneven volumes that came with fair regularity once a year from
his pen, that they never were written with one eye looking askance at
ihe general public, seeking anxiously for signs of approval. On the con-
trary, one feels that it never occurred to Mr. Locke that there was such
a thing as a general public; that he took no heed of how many people
bought or approved hte books; that he wrote primarily to please himself
— ^and ibis, by the way, is the surest way of pleasing tiiose readers whose
approval is worth the winning.
Within the past two years, however, several little things have hap-
pened whose cumulative force would not unnaturally tend to give the
vox poptili a greater semblance of divine authority, even to so modest and
^8epiimu8. By W. J. Locke. New Tork: The John Lane Company.
LITEKATURE 181
retiring a personage as the author of The Beloved Vagabond. In the first
place, the experiment of building a play from The Morals of Marcus re-
sulted in a very big London success, in spite of the fact that at the time
there was a feud between the actor-manager, Mr. Arthur Bourchier and
the dramatic critics, in consequence of which the play was practically
ignored by the newspapers. Then came the American production of
Marcus, the dramatization of what is easily Mr. Locke's best work.
The Beloved Vagabond, the sudden awakening of the general public to
the idea that here was an author they ought to know something about ;
and finally the serialization in one of our magazines of big circulation of
Mr. Locke's latest novel, Septimus. There is, of course, an immense dif-
ference between the modest succis d'estime of former years and the pres-
ent flamboyant trumpeting with its awards of crowded houses and a
place among the Six Best Selling Books. And because all this is apt
to confuse one's sense of relative values, it seems worth while to forget
for the moment all these misleading factors of popular success and to
ask calmly and judicially what Septimus really stands for in the literary
development of Mr. Locke. The question is all the more necessary be-
cause of the large proportion of American readers to whom his name
comes for the first time as the author of Septimus; a large proportion
who will be apt to measure him chiefly by Septimus, and, it may be
added, a large proportion who may never read any other book of his
than Septimus.
Frankly, Mr. Locke deserves a better fate than this. Uneven though
his work confessedly is, at his best he deserves a rather high place among
the writers of to-day. His deliciously irresponsible vagaries, his whimsi-
cal tenderness, his audacious disregard of the conventions of story-writ-
ing, and not less than these his undeniable quality of style entitle him
to be recognized as one of that small group who have a chance to outlive
that great host of ephemeral novelists who write for the day and ho^r.
He is not a master of fiction in the sense in which we think of Maupas-
sant and Meredith and Henry James — ^masters equally of technique and
of the truth of life. Mr. Locke's mastery is of an entirely different sort.
His power lies almost wholly in the personal equation, the whimsical,
extravagant, ironical conceptions that he flings before us often in defi-
ance of common sense and the laws of probability — ^now and then almost
crossing the borderline of caricature, and yet kept curiously real by the
very genuine and whole-hearted understanding of human nature that
lies behind them.
Accordingly, it is not surprising that, measured by his plots, Mr.
Locke would always be rated very much below his worth. The plot in
182 THE FORUM
itself is the thing about which he evidently cares least; a mere scaflEold-
ing on which to erect a new structure of flashing epigrams, diverting
paradoxes, absurdities veiling a wise philosophy of life. But a thought-
ful survey of his books in the order of production shows at least this:
that he has steadily weaned himself away from his first tendencies to-
ward melodrama; that while one and all of his books are impossible when
measured by life's actualities, the later ones have grown steadily more
deliciously, refreshingly impossible with less and less of the rant-
ing, bombastic, Ouidaesque tone of his first efforts. Undoubtedly, the
process of development culminated in The Beloved Vagabond. If Mr.
Locke is ever to give us a better book, or even as good a book, he must
do so by giving us something radically different, and not a compound
of the same ingredients mixed according to the same recipe. And a
mixing of the same old ingredients, as we shall presently see, is unfortu-
hately a fair description of the way in which he has compounded
Septimus.
It is hardly worth while to go back to all his earlier volumes in order
to see how the ground plans of the majority of them are simply clever
variations on one and the same air; that his heroes are all extravagantly,
wilfully, incredibly quixotic; that they almost uniformly blast their
prospects in life through some preposterous act pf self-sacrifice for the
sake of some woman who as likely as not neither knows nor cares. It
will be enough for our purpose to recall quite briefly the essentials of flie
plot of The Beloved Vagabond. In that book, you will remember, Ber-
zelius Nibbidard Paragot is a vagabond and exile, because he has taken
upon his shoulders the sins of some one else, some one closely related to
the woman he thought he loved, the woman with the petits pieds si adores.
And having assumed this burden, he accepts with it all the consequences
it entails; the necessity of playing the part consistently before the eyes
of the world, of cutting himself off from all the old associations that had
formerly made up the joy of living; and, hardest of all, silently accepting
the scorn of the woman who does not understand. And in the end, he
awakens to a knowledge that all the weary months and years through
which he has been mourning for his lost happiness, a better and finer
and more genuine joy of life has been within easy arm's-length, waiting
for him to reach out and take it. This, in brief, is the skdeton structure
of The Belovid Vagabond. And, like most skeleton structures, it is of
small value except for the flesh and blood that it serves to sustain. For
what Berzelius Nibbidard Paragot does is of infinitely less importance
than what Berzelius Nibbidard Paragot is. His destiny is a diverting
story, but his personality is an abiding joy.
LITERATURE jgS
Now, with no intention of being unfair, the reviewer who attempts
in like manner to epitomize SepHmtis finds himself compelled by truth
to do it very mnch after this fashion : to point out that Septimus Ajax
Dix, if not quite a vagabond and exile, has at least cut himself off from
his old routine of life because he has taken upon his shoulders the sins
of some one else, some one closely related to the woman he thinks he
loves. And having assumed this burden, he accepts with it all the con-
sequences it entails ; the necessity of playing his part consistently, before
the eyes of the world, the necessity of cutting himself off from certain
old associations that had once made up the joy of living; and hardest
of all, silently bearing the wondering contempt of the woman for whom
he has sacrificed himself, and who is incapable of understanding. And
in the end, he awakens to a knowledge that the weary months through
which he has bravely played his part have really been a blessing in dis-
guise because they have gradually been paving the way to a better and
finer and more genuine joy of life that has all the time been within
arm's-length, waiting only for him to reach out and take it. Somehow,
there is a familiar ring about this. It almost sounds like a twice-told
tale. Of course, to those who dissect plots with the elaborate care that
a geologist gives to the bones of a pterodactyl, it may seem a vastly im-
portant point of difference that the sinful relative of the lady aux chers
petiis pieds was her bankrupt father, while in the case of the woman
whom Septimus Ajax Dix thought he loved it happened to be a frail and
erring sister. But in either case, the articulation of the joints, the action
of the story, moves along in quite the same fashion. The vital difference
lies here: that in The Beloved Vagabond we have a group of characters
that refuse to be forgotten; Asticot, Blanquette de Veau, the Vagabond
himself, have taken their places among those permanent friends in the
world of fiction without whom life would be just so much the poorer.
But in SeptimuSj however much we may smile at the time, over whimsi-
calities of speech and action, there is not a character for whom we would
feel a greater desire for another meeting than for the fellow-travellers
whom we face for a brief ten minutes in a trolley car. Probably if we did
meet them, we should not be aware of it; but if ever we should meet
Paragot, striding joyously along some rural by-way of Prance, even
though he be no longer the Vagabond of old, but Paragot, the reformed
Benedict, the landed proprietor, the father of a family, we should know
him on the instant and joyously hail him by name.
And, in only slightly less measure this is also true of The Morals of
Marcus Ordeyne, Less human in its appeal, depending more upon little
flashes of irony than on the whimsical tenderness that is Mr. Locke's
Ig4 "^^^ FORUM
most characteristic note^ it nereitlieless leaves an impression that abides.
There is in it^ more strongly than anywhere else, a certain flavor that is
more Gallic than British, a sparkle that one most seek long to find in
any other English novelist of to-day. It bears well the test of a second
reading; not so well, to be sure, as The Beloved Vagabond, bnt certainly
mnch better than snch volumes as A White Dove, Idols and Derelicts, —
and emphatically better than Septimus.
And the reason? Well, no one, not even the anthor himself, can ex-
plain why one book has in it the spark of genins and another has not.
Bnt this at least can be said without fear of contradiction : that Septimus
is curiously well adapted for the purposes of a popular serial, and that
none of Mr. Locke's earlier volumes would have been nearly so well
suited to this purpose. And secondly, that if for the sake of argument
we should assume that Mr. Locke had set himself to study over aU of
his other books; to select from them such incidents and situations, such
epigrams and paradoxes as had apparently caught the popular vote; and
then with deliberate intention had built up a story that should embody
all of these popular qualities, we might have expected the resulting vol-
ume to be something not greatly unlike Septimus, Not that Septimus
is undeserving of its popularity. On the contrary, it is exactly the sort
of book of which the crowd — ^Mr. Buskin's crowd — ^might be expected to
approve. And in fairness, let it be conceded that the book is not un-
worthy of a place among Mr. Locke's writings. It is even better than
some of his very early productions. But the present tendency is to pro-
claim it as a sort of masterpiece, a crowning glory around the pinnacle
of his recently achieved fame. A good many people of fair average intelli-
gence will take this contention seriously. And that will be an infinite
pity.
PhUip TUlinghast.
LITERATURE " -. 186
ONEIROS
BY BRIAN HOOKER
Out of the hush and darkness of deep sleep
Your face came toward me : first a nebulous gleam
Like some dim star beheld with eyes that weep;
Then wavering nearer in a misty flame.
As the moon falters up through some dark stream.
When the wind moves at midnight. With you came
A breath of music, faint and far away;
And light and music somehow seemed the same —
The one, all hope that longing turns to fear;
The other, all men dream and dare not say.
Slowly the brightness broadened, and drew near,
And orbed into the wonder of your face.
While the sound swelled and echoed, trembling-clear —
The minor dominant of a strong desire
Beating the sullen bars of time and space;
And with your coming, ever the sound rose higher.
Quivering with extremity of sweet;
And I could see your eyes; and the dim fire
That framed your face became your golden hair
Falling in streams of summer to your feet;
And the wild melody shook earth and air.
You ever drawing closer, till at last
Music and brightness grew too great to bear —
Then suddenly the yearning cadence caught
The chord it longed for, and I held you fast. . . .
/
Igg TBS VGBXJU
Then tbe dream changed. Heary with heat, and fraught
With sighs of slumbering roses, hung the g^m
Orer ns. Little -breezes passed, and can^^t
Sweetness from bower and flower, and wandered on
Through murmuring groves and beds of hidden bloom.
Hard by, a marble palace rose, tiiat shone
With pearly balconies and columns tall
Sprayed into arch like fountains turned to stone;
And from a lower window deep-embayed.
Two bars of yellow light streamed forth, to fall
On your white dress and shining head, and made
A saint of you, and passed imwillingly.
Paling to amber where they half displayed
Mysterious gardens darkling down to meet
The starlit laughter of the distant sea.
Down with the light came a swift, rhythmic beat
Of eager music, and tbe yellow bars
Were shaken and shaded, as the hurrying feet
Of dancers crossed the light. All throbbed in time —
The music and our hearts and the hot stars.
Woes of dead lovers in an ancient rhyme.
Deeds of dead heroes when the world was young.
Strife of great souls that strove in vain to climb
Steeps of sheer joy where only angels tread —
Ached in that music, finding heart and tongue.
And the old childhood feelings I thought dead
Came back upon me, seeming strange and new :
Love of I knew not what; and causeless dread;
And vague desire. All old things passed away
Betumed fulfilled, and all found form in you.
LITEItATURE 187
Under a huge dim-towering tree I lay.
You bending over me. I knew my sight
Had never fallen on your face by day;
Yet had I known yon well and sought you long.
Loved in forgotten dreams for many a night.
And yon were soft and dear like an old song,
And wild as moonlit clouds. Love strung to pain
Tightened your cheek and made your breath grow long
And your lips brighten. Tears were in your eyes,
And in your hair the scent of summer rain.
And as I held you close, we seemed to rise
And float away over the waves of sound.
And all things but ourselves were fantasies :
Death an old lie; and life an empty quest;
And time a blind mole burrowing underground.
Then our eyes drew you down. Your warm lips pressed
On mine with eager kisses. All the dark
Was full of you. Through your quick-panting breast
I felt your heart slow beating against my own
Like the heat-pulses, in a dying spark. . . .
Then the dream faded. Like a petal blown
Prom some tall blossom, you floated down — your whole
Love in your eyes, and your bright arms up-thrown —
Blurred to a hazy glimmer, far withdrawn,
So faint I only seemed to see your soul —
Faded, and flashed, and vanished. And the dawn
Burst in upon me and I woke. Yet still
Truth seemed a shadow of the dream foregone.
And all brave hopes your glamour cast before.
And all good thoughts the echo of your will.
Xflft THB lOBUM
And ^11 jon hdp me. Shall we mert causa mare.
Out of t:iie hndi and darfrnfgH of deep deep.
In the day-woild^a tnmnltnans toil and war?
And if I find 70a — shall jaa €fver be
Aa the waim fireli^t of my hmng to Tngj
Or acme dim star bdield with eyes iiiat weep ?
Brian Hooker.
The Forum
March, 1909
SUGGESTIONS FOR AMENDMENTS TO OUR
PATENT LAW
BY I8AA0 L. RICE
"The introduction of great inyentions appears one of the most
distinguished of human actions, and the ancients so considered it;
for they assigned divine honors to the authors of inyentions, but
only heroic honors to those who displayed ciyil merit; such as the
founders of cities and empires, legislators, the deliyerers of their
country from lasting misfortunes, the quellers of tyrants, and the
like."— Lord Bacon, quoted in ''Walker on Patenta."
It is inherent in the nature of man and things that at times the
question of production of wealthy and at others that of its distribution
becomes paramount. In the early stages of a country's development the
aim is to produce enough to make it independent of foreign production.
When that period is measurably reached it is found advantageous, never-
theless, to continue the stimulation of production in order to gain the
markets of the world. The inevitable postulate and result of such a
policy is the concentration of wealth, and the inevitable consequence of
this in turn is an agitation against concentrated wealth on the ground
that it implies an unequal and therefore, presumably an unjust distribu-
tion. As monopoly constitutes such concentration in its most intense
form, the agitation against unequal distribution of wealth finds its first
expression in anti-monopoly legislation.
At the time when our constitution was adopted, this country was in
the stage where the stimulation of production was a requisite of our
existence, and as corollary to that, the encouragement of inventive genius
to devise ways and means of making labor more and more productive, so
that notwithstanding our scant population we might become self-sup-
P^rmiirion to republish artieUi is reserved
]^90 THE FORUM
porting, and free from the trammels of commerce with Europe, then ex-
tremely onerous. To this end the following provision was inserted in
that instrument:
Congress shall have power to promote the progress of science and
useful arts by securing for limited time to inventors the exclusive rights
to their respective discoveries. (Art. I, Sec. 8.)
This provision continued the policy that had been dominant in Qreat
Britain on its emergence from feudalism. Although apparently in con-
tradiction to the anti-monopolistic legislation coincident with the de-
velopment of that monarchy into an industrial state, it was based on the
conviction that inventions are the soul of industrial development, and
that monopoly allowed in them for the purpose of encouraging them
would have an effect diametrically opposite to that resulting from the
financial monopolies that had been prevalent.
Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that monopolistic rights for what-
ever purpose granted act as a check upon the unlimited use of the ob-
jects of those rights, and that therefore producers naturally incline to-
ward profiting from inventions without being hampered by such rights.
And although the restrictions arising from patent laws are funda-
mentally similar to those arising from private property rights in gen-
eral, preventing, as they do, one person from using for himself the prop-
erty of another, in practice a distinction has arisen between the violation
of patent rights as compared to rights of property of a more tangible
character; in consequence of which, moral obloquy attaches to the thief
who steals the purse of the inventor, containing the proceeds of a patent
right that has been sold, while praise and rewards are dealt out to the
enterprising person who steals a patent invention before it is converted
into money. This shows that in practical life ethics and the decalogue
are apt to count for little unless given vigor by positive law. If the
property right in an object is well defined and the title to it fairly easy
of demonstration, no matter whether the object be tangible or intangible,
the fact that retribution can fairly be expected to follow the theft, causes
moral obloquy to attach to the thief automatically. If a property right
is ill defined and title diflScult to establish, little or no protection is af-
forded by moral scruples.
An appeal to ethics therefore being useless, the question can be
treated only from the point of view whether our country has arrived at
the stage of production where inventions can safely be discouraged. That
the policy now pursued tends to that end admits of no question. To
make this evident to those who are unfamiliar with the subject it is only
SUGGESTIONS FOR AMENDMENTS TO OUR PATENT LAW 191
necessary briefly to outline the usual history of an important patent
after it leaves the patent office.
The vast majority of patents have indeed no history. They are either
taken out by an enthusiastic inventor who believes that his improvement
will revolutionize his art or by corporations who deem it wise to ac-
quire as many patents as possible as additional protection to the basic
inventions which they control. Patents such as these, which consti-
tute the large majority of patents issued, are rarely infringed, and only
occasionally crop up as minor factors in serious patent litigation. Should
an invention, however, be an important one and the inventor succeed in
finding capital to exploit it, then he is certain to discover that the more
he has benefited the public the more his invention is likely to be a source
of anxiety, trouble and loss, rather than of profit; for the more important
the invention, the more it conflicts with existing methods of the art to
which it is applicable, and the more its introduction will be opposed.
Great effort and large capital must first be expended in order to convince
the public of its usefulness, which expense, of course, must be borne en-
tirely by the persons exploiting it. Out of the seventeen years' life
of a patent it is not at all extravagant to say that more than half of
that time is required to establish the invention commercially. How-
ever, when at last it is recognized as an improvement on existing
methods, and has therefore become a necessity, then the next step is that
all hands steal it, with every chance that the patent protecting it will be
caught somewhere in the fine net of the litigation and either be declared
invalid or so limited as to make evasion possible, and perhaps easy. In
fact, the owners of a patent will long hesitate before attempting to assert
their rights, as by doing so they risk all they have invested in the patent
and its exploitation to the chances of a suit in which the law permits as
many as twenty-seven defences.* Such a suit indeed is almost as haz-
^Walker on Patents, enumerates them as follows:
"The defences which are pleadable in bar to an action, are very numerous in
the patent law, and most of them are peculiar to this branch of jurisprudence.
Where the facts appear to warrant so doing, a defendant may plead: 1. That the
matter covered by the letters patent was not a statutory subject of a patent: or
2. That it was not an invention: or 3. That it was not novel at the time of its
alleged invention: or 4. That it was not useful at that time: or 5. That the
inventor actually abandoned the invention : or 6. That he constructively abandoned
it, by not applying for a patent on it, during the time allowed by the statutes for
such an application to be made: or 7. That the invention claimed in the original
patent is substantially different from any indicated, suggested, or described in the
original application therefor: or 8. That the patentee surreptitiously or unjustly
obtained the patent for that which was in fact the invention of another, who was
192 THE FORUM
ardous as a lottery. Its outcome may hang upon the impression made
upon a court by the claim that the invention is not patentable, because
of a publication in an old newspaper in some outlandish language, which
the attorney for the defendant, in his scouring of the world for a plausi-
ble defence, may have detected, and on which a plausible argument in
favor of anticipation may have been based; or it may happen that an
invention which has revolutionized a particular trade impresses the court
as one that any person with ordinary skill in that trade could have made
if he had only thought of it,^ and for that reason not patentable; or it
may even occur that an invention which has been eagerly adopted by
every manufacturer engaged in the line to which it is applicable may, in
the mind of the court, have been couched in language tiiat does not dis-
close the invention, and therefore, the patent declared invalid; indeed the
very expenditure on a large scale for the purpose of introducing an in-
using reasonable diligence in adapting and perfecting the same: or 9. That the
invention was made by another jointly with the sole applicant: or 10. That it
was made by one only of two or more joint applicants: or 11. That for the pur-
pose of deceiving the public, the description and specification filed in the Patent
Office was made to cover less than the whole truth relevant to the invention, or
was made to cover more than was necessary to produce the desired effect: or
12. That the description of the invention in the specification is not in such full,
clear, concise, and exact terms as to enable any person skilled in the art or
science to which it appertains, or with which it is most nearly connected, to
make, construct, compoimd, and use the same: or 13. That the claims of the
patent are not distinct: or 14. That the patentee unreasonably delayed to enter
a needed disclaimer: or 16. That the original patent was surrendered and reissued
in the absence of every statutory foundation thereof: or 16. That the claims of
the reissue patent in suit are broader than those of the original, and that the
reissue was not applied for till a long time had elapsed after the original was
granted: or 17. That the reissue patent in suit covers a different invention from
-any which the original patent shows was intended to be secured thereby: or
18. That the invention claimed in the original patent is substantially identical
with an invention claimed in a prior patent granted on the application of the same
Inventor: or 10. That the patent was repealed: or 20. That the patent legally
expired before the alleged infringement began, or before it ended: or 21. That
the patentee made or sold specimens of the invention covered by his patent, with-
out marking them 'patented,' and without notifying the defendant of his infringe-
ment: or 22. That the plaintiff has no title to the patent, or no such title as can
enable him to maintain the action : or 23. That the defendant has a license, which
authorized part or all of the doings which constitute the alleged infringement: or
24. That the defendant has a release, discharging him from liability on accoimt
of part or all of the alleged infringement: or 25. That the defendant is not guilty
of any infringement of the patent upon which he is sued: or 26. That the plaintiff
is estopped from enforcing any right of action against the defendant: or 27. That
the cause of action sued upon, is partly or wholly barred by some statute of
limitation."
SUGGESTIONS FOR AMENDMENTS TO OUR PATENT LAW 198
yention may be used as an argument against the validity of a patent on
the ground that it was not the invention but the capital invested in ad-
vertisements which caused its general adoption.
Nevertheless^ as a general rule^ the owners of every important patent
are finally brought to the point where infringers who have stolen the
invention not only deprive them of their monopoly, but are able to un-
dersell them, as the patentees operate under greater cost on account of
the expenses incurred by them in the purchase of the patent, and ite ex-
ploitetion during the periods when public demand had to be created and
stimulated. When that point is reached, they are brought face to face
with the dilemma of either losing their entire investment in the patent
and its exploitation, or bringing suit. And now they are confronted
with a procedure that seems to have been especially created and developed
not to carry out but to nullify Section 8 of Article I of the Constitution.
The action begins like all others : by a complaint in which the plain-
tiff sets out his patent and prays for an injunction against the infringer
and an accounting for the profits illegally made. This complaint is met
by an answer in which the defendant sets up as many of the twenty-seven
defences as can with even the slightest plausibility be dragged into the
case. The trial then proceeds, but not in court. It is conducted entirely
by the attorneys and is practically controlled by the defendant, whose pol-
icy is to delay the proceedings as much as possible in order that the ex-
penses may exhaust the plaintiff's resources, or at any rate, keep him out
of the enjoyment of the fruits of his patent for the longest possible
period. The better to accomplish this purpose, his policy is to fill up the
record with all sorts of irrelevant matter and examine witnesses in all
parte of the world, irrespective of whether their testimony has any mate-
rial bearing on the case. It is true that when the abuse becomes too
flagrant a motion for relief may be made to the court, but it is also true
that this motion consumes time and increases expense, and therefore is
directly in aid of the intereste of the defendant, as in the meantime the
latter proceeds to exploit the invention, regardless of the patent, while
ite life goes on diminishing.
After thus dragging along for two or three years and building up
a record consisting of a huge amount of testimony — ^very little of which
probably would be admitted in a court of law as evidence if the trials
were conducted in open court — ^when, at length, the matter comes to a
hearing, the judge, who is trained as a lawyer and not as an expert in
all the arte and sciences in the world, must wade through this mass,
probably full of technical matters, with only such light as the
attorneys of either side will give him in their argumente and briefs;
r
294 '^^^ KIKDM
10 that the lespectiye ability of the MofniejE plajB a far greater part
in the decision of these cases, than it does in cases depending i^n prin-
ciples of law applied to questions arising from the ordinary relations of
life.
Moreover^ qnite frequently, the judge during the hearing asks a ques-
tion affecting the validity of the patent, which occurs to him, but had
never occurred to either of the parties or their experts or their lawyers
during the years of the trial, and if the attorney of the plaintiff has not
presence of mind enough to find a satisfactory answer on the spur of the
moment (for, after all, the attorney is a lawyer and not an expert, and
can be presumed to know the case only as far as testimony may have
developed it), he becomes converted into an expert witness against his
own side, and one of such weight that the huge mass of testimony
gathered together at ruinous expense of time and money will go for
naught, if the judge is under the impression that the question thus
propounded and unsatisfactorily answered is the pivot on which the case
turns.
But even if the patent passes, as it occasionally docs, through this
ordeal as well as all the previous ones, and is sustained, and an injunc-
tion issues restraining the defendant from further infringement, coupled
with an accounting, the patentee has still a mountain of troubles before
him. There is, first of all, an appeal to the Cireuit Court of Appeals,
and it is quite usual for the court to suspend the injunction and account-
ing during the time required for such an appeal, on the condition of a
bond being given, usually fixed at a comparatively small amount, so as
not to embarrass the infringer in the further exploitation of the inven-
tion pending the decision of the Appellate Court.
If the judgment be affirmed, there is still a long and dangerous road
to be traversed by the patentee if he attempts to gamer the fruits. Not
only can every step of the accounting be contested in respect to the
principles governing such proceeding, but the validity of the patent itself
is again and constantly put in jeopardy, owing to the possibility of newly
discovered evidence convincing the court that there is ground for re-
opening the entire matter, including the validity of the patent. But
even if the patentee finally prevails against one infringer, the others
can, nevertheless, proceed with manufacturing and selling the infringed
device, though they reside in the same United States circuit in which
a judgment in favor of the patent had been • rendered, as such a
judgment affects only the parties in the case; so that new suits must be
brought against the other infringers, each of whom is in position to
contest anew every step necessary again to establish the patent, and can
SUGGESTIONS FOR AMENDMENTS TO OUR PATENT LAW 195
in the meantime continue to infringe, provided only that the court has
been lenient enough to permit him so to continue on filing a bond.
It generally happens, moreover, that when an invention is of such
importance that it is infringed in more than one circuit, it becomes
necessary, in order to protect the patent, to carry on infringement
suits simultaneously in more than one, and possibly in all of the
circuits.
And now, as in each one of the suits the same procedure is followed,
involving the same hazards, it is quite to be expected that a patent may
be declared void in one circuit while sustained in all the others. If this
occurs, owing to the fact that only the parties in litigation are affected'
by the judgments rendered, the doctrine of res adjudicata comes into
play, which, not only renders the successful infringer immune in the
circuit wherein the patent has been declared void, but extends this im-
munity to all the customers of the infringer, even though they reside in
the circuits in which the patent had been declared valid. And if it,
should happen that the patentee as well as the successful infringer reside
in the same circuit injunctions may be issued restraining the patentee
from bringing suit against the infringer, in the circuits wherein the pat-
ent has been declared valid, on aflBdavits of the successful infringer to the
effect that the other infringers are his customers. To all intents and
purposes the successful infringer now becomes a tenant-in-common of
the patent with and enjoys equal rights with the patentee, and thus our
patent law, intended to carry out the constitutional provision for the
protection of inventors, not only falls short of doing this, but in certain
circumstances actually deprives the inventor of his monopoly and
confers it on the thief of his invention. These circumstances arise when
the patentee, having paid large sums for the invention and expended still
larger ones in improvements necessary to make the invention commercial
and cause its adoption, and having in addition to all this an obligation fo
pay heavy royalties, succumbs in the competition with the infringer who
never paid for the invention, nor its improvements, nor for its exploita-
tion, and is free from royalties. That he must succumb under such con-
ditions is an inevitable law of trade and universally recognized ever since
the case of the rival broomsellers known to fame, one of whom stole his
brooms and therefore had no trouble in underselling his competitor and
monopolizing the trade.
There can be no question but that a law which brings about such a
state of affairs is unrighteous, and ought to be either repealed or
amended. If we have reached a period in our industrial development
where the production of wealth has become a secondary consideration
]^96 ^™^ FORUM
and flhonld be retarded rather than stimulated, as a postdate of a more
equal distribntion, and therefore legal monopolies having for their ob-
jects the encouragement of production should no longer be granted^ then,
of course, the time has come to repeal our patent laws.
If, on the other hand, the means of securing constantly increasing
production under most favorable economic conditions is considered para-
mount to the methods of distribution of the wealth produced, then our
endeavor must be to stimulate invention and encourage inventors by
legislation that will carry out in letter and spirit the constitutional pro-
vision relating to patents, and not delude ourselves with makeshifts that
become traps to ensnare the unwary. We must not seek to turn the in-
ventor's bread into stone, but in exchange for the benefits which he con-
fers upon us, in increasing our productive capacity, we must give him
an adequate consideration by permitting him for a brief period to have
as full an enjoyment of the monopoly of his invention as of the monopoly
which he possesses of the watch in his pocket, and we should protect him
against the thieves of his invention as surely as we protect him in the
ownership of his watch against pickpockets.
To accomplish this requires indeed a complete change of the theory
which now underlies our patent law, viz., that a patent monopoly is a
private privilege derogatory to the personal rights of each individual
affected by it, and that therefore the right to the privilege nrust be es-
tablished anew against every individual contesting it, by suits in
personam. Prom this false theory, all the incongruities and iniquities
of our patent law flow as logical consequences. The very contrary is
true: a patent is an obligation assumed by the public for a valuable
consideration which it must enforce as a public duty against all infrac-
tors; and the proceedings relating to patents should therefore be in
rem. That is to say, before the public definitely assumes the obligation,
it must be definitely ascertained whether the claimant is entitled to be
considered an inventor and whether the public is benefited by the inven-
tion, and this once ascertained and established, the patent should be
held good and valid against the world.
In order to accomplish this, it seems to me necessary to enact an
amendatory law which should embrace the following provisions:
I. The establishment in Washington of a federal court having all
the powers of a court of chancery invested with exclusive original and
appellate jurisdiction throughout the United States in patent and kin-
dred causes, whose process shall run throughout the United States and
its possessions.
II. The publication of an official weekly patent gazette containing
SUGGESTIONS FOR AMENDMENTS TO OUR PATENT LAW 197
in extenso all patents granted within th^ preceding week and which shall
be open to subscription or for sale in single numbers.
III. All grants of patents to be provisional for a period of six months
and subject during ^nch period to proceedings for annulment on part
of the public.
IV. All persons desiring to obtain a decree for the annulment of
any patent to file severally with the clerk of the court a complaint con-
taining the allegations claimed to constitute grounds for annulmont.
Such grounds should be fixed by law, well defined, and under prin-
ciples easy of application, since by the publication of the invention in- '
cident to the granting of a patent the patentee loses his property therein
for the benefit of the public, and therefore annulment is tantamount to
confiscation.
V. Upon the filing of any complaint, the clerk shall immediately
notify the patentee by mail of such complaint and also cause to be served
upon him a copy thereof. Within two months after such service the
patentee shall file his answer and the clerk shall ^kewise cause a copy
thereof to be served upon the complainant, after which service the case
shall be placed upon the calendar and brought to trial within nine months
after the grant upon all the complaints simultaneously. If the com-
plaints are numerous, the court shall upon application of the patentee
appoint a special master in chancery to collate and marshal the issues,
and the court during trial may make such rulings as may be proper to
prevent cumulative testimony. If the state of the calendar is such that
the case is not likely to be reached within that time, then upon motion
by any of the parties, any judge of the court may appoint a master in
chancery vested with all the powers of the court for the purpose of con-
ducting such trial.
VI. At such trial, the parties shall appear with their experts and
witnesses, who shall be examined orally, and shall produce such testimony
as may have been taken by commission under special authority of the
court upon issues of fact, and the case shall be heard uninterruptedly
during court hours until completed, whether the same be before
a judge or before a master. If the trial is had before a master, he shall
file his report within three months after such trial, and such report shall
have the effect of a final decree unless disapproved by the court within
thirty days thereafter, and a new trial granted.
VII. The decree may sustain the validity of the patent, may
amend it so as to conform with the evidence, or may annul it. Any of
the parties may appeal from the decree to the Appellate Division of the
Court within sixty days after service of the entry thereof, which
L^j^ THE FORUM
H4^%ivv ^hII be caused to be made upon all the parties by the clerk of
\thi^ wvuik. If upon the hearing of such appeal any judge may
liuvt it Uixressary to ask questions of the counsel of either party,
%buvh cannot be answered by the testimony of record, such counsel shall
^ v^atitled to subpoena further witnesses for examination before the
^^l>tH?Uate division on the points to be elucidated; and such testimony
lAhuU form part of the record as though it had been originally given in
th<^ trial of the case.
Yin. In the absence of any proceedings for annulment of a provi-
sional patent for the space of six months after its grant, or upon entry
of a final decree, the issue of the patent shall take place, and upon such
iaaue it shall be held valid against the world and subject only to can-
cellation on the ground of subsequently discovered fraud.
IX. In the event of any infringement of a patent, the patentee may
bring suit against the infringer in the patent court for an injunction
and an accounting, and on proper affidavits shall be entitled to a prelim-
inary injunction restraining the infringement of the patent pendente
lite, the only defence permitted in such a suit to be that of non-infringe-
ment
X. In order to prevent a patent from ruining existing industries,
persons aflFected may petition the court for a compulsory license, and
upon the patentee being heard the court may, where the evidence sus-
tains the petition, in its discretion, order the patentee to give the licenses
prayed for, but only on terms which in the opinion of the court will
aiford the patentee ample remuneration and provide for amortization.
XI. The duration of a patent should date from the final issue, and
be limited to seven years, with the right on part of the patentee to ob-
tain two several renewals of five years each.
XII. As under the proposed legislation patent rights would become
valuable property, the fees should be sufficiently high to defray at least
all the expenses connected with the maintenance of the patent office and
of the patent court. They should be so graded as to be comparatively
low for the provisional grant, considerably higher for the final issue, and
correspondingly increased for each renewal.
I8aac L. Rice,
THE INCOMIKG OF TAITS ADMINISTEATION
BY HENRY LITCHFIELD WEST
On the fourth of March William Howard Taft, of Ohio, will take
the oath of office under the white dome of the United States Capitol
and, returning to the White House amid the applause of hundreds of
thousands of American citizens, will enter upon his administration as
President of the United States.
On the morning of the fourth of March it will be President Boose-
velt; on the afternoon of the fourth of March it will be President Taft.
One ruler will be speeding away to hunt in the wilds
'Pjj^ of Africa and another ruler will have taken up the
Inaugura- reins of government The country will feel no shock.
tion The wheels of government will revolve with steady and
monotonous whirr, even though another hand is on the
lever. Belations with foreign nations will remain unchanged. Business
will proceed without interruption and not only in the remote villages,
but in the busy cities, the tide of human afifairs will surge on with only a
passing interest in the event in Washington. The truth of these state-
ments does not, however, detract one iota from the significance and
interest of the spectacle. Viewed with an analytical and observing eye,
it recalls the fact that seventy millions of people have registered their
will at the polls and that the judgment of the majority is finding its
concrete expression in the elevation of an untitled citizen to the high
office of President of the United States. On the fourth of March par-
tisanship is forgotten. Patriotism takes its place and a shower of good
wishes falls upon the new executive.
It augurs well for the stability of our republican institutions that
these political revolutions can be so peacefully and even joyously accom-
plished. Even when control passes from one party to another, as when
Mr. Cleveland succeeded Mr. Arthur, there is no disturbance. In the
present instance, when Mr. Taft is the avowed disciple of the doctrines
in which President Boosevelt so thoroughly believed, the danger of tran-
sition is reduced to a minimum. We know that honorable peace is cer-
tain to be maintained, that the economic policy of the government is
not to be altered in principle, that the laws are to be administered with
firmness, justice and strict impartiality, and that there cannot be any
radical departure from the conditions which have contributed to pros-
perity during the past twelve years. The incoming of the new adminis-
200 THE FORUM
tration is^ therefore^ accompanied by a universal note of confidence. The
skies are blue, no danger threatens. The ship of state is to sail over a
well-charted sea and both commander and crew are experienced and
competent.
At the same time, there is a natural interest attaching to a change
of administration. What are the personal traits and predilections of
the new President? What are his beliefs, his policies, his attitude toward
men and things? These are questions which invite some consideration.
Upon the answers depends the success or failure of an administration.
*^f I am elected President,'' said Mr. Taft in a speech at Sandusky
last September, 'T. propose to devote all the ability that is in me to the
constructive work of suggesting to Congress the means
Will by which the Boosevelt policies shall be clinched."
Continue ^ Th^^ fijgt of all, we find that the purpose of the
oosevc a ^^^ President is to continue the work so efiEectively
begun by Mr. Boosevelt. What, in particular, is to be
done in this direction? Mr. Taft himself answers the question. ^'The
chief function of the next administration, in my judgment,'' he said in
his speech to the notification committee, "is distinct from, and a pro-
gressive development of, that which has been performed by President
Roosevelt. The chief function of the next administration is to com-
plete and perfect the machinery by which these standards may be main-
tained, by which the law-breakers may be promptly restrained and
punished, but which shall operate with suflScient accuracy and dispatch
to interfere with legitimate business as little as possible." If we go still
further into detail we find that Mr. Taft would have the Interstate Com-
merce Commission relieved of its jurisdiction as an executive and direct-
ing body and would limit its functions to the quasi- judicial investigation
of complaints. He would have corporations which possess the power
and opportunity to effect illegal restraints of trade and monopolies sub-
jected to registry and to proper publicity regulations and the supervision
of the Department of Labor. We find, in fact, that Mr. Taft has closely
observed and followed the preachings and the practices of President
Boosevelt and that he will enter the White House fully imbued with the
spirit of his predecessor. *TJnlawful trusts," he says, "should be re-
strained with all the efSciency of injunctive process, and the persons
engaged in maintaining them should be punished with all the severity of
criminal prosecution, in order that the methods pursued in the operation
of their business shall be brought within the law." Surely this is a
sentence which Theodore Boosevelt might have penned.
THE INCOMING OP TAFT'S ADMINISTRATION 201
It being apparent^ therefore, that the chief aim of the new adminis-
tration will be to tread in the footsteps of Mr. Boosevelt, it will be
interesting to discuss whether Mr. Taft can anticipate
Capacity, ^ ^^^ measure of success in his undertaking. Viewing
Experience the situation from every standpoint he ought not to
and Ability contemplate the future with any misgiving. He is
equipped with the three essentials for success — ^ability,
courage and experience. No one doubts his ability. From the day when
he began work as assistant prosecuting attorney in his native State until
he achieved the stability of the Philippine possessions he demonstrated
the great capacity of his mind. Courage he does not lack. Early in
life, so the story goes, he thrashed a blackmailing editor who slandered
his father and in his later years he never failed to express his con-
victions with equal force, though perhaps in less spectacular fashion.
As for experience, what man in the United States has served in such
varied capacities? His activities have been almost kaleidoscopic. Prose-
cuting attorney, collector of internal revenue, lawyer, solicitor-general,
judge upon a federal circuit, governor of the Philippines, secretary of
war, adjuster of grave and delicate international questions, globe-girdler
— even this formidable list does not convey an adequate idea of Mr. Taf t^s
accomplishments. It is no exaggeration to say that there is no man in
public or private life in the United States so completely fitted for the
duties of President as Mr. Taft. The reins of government are not un-
familiar to his hands. He has dealt with all sorts and conditions of
men. He has approached public questions both from the standpoint of
the executive and the judicial
The only omission in Mr. Taft^s busy life is a legislative training.
He has never served in any State or in the federal legislature. He has
administered laws and he has construed them; he has never helped to
make them. While this is true, it is also a fact that he has been brought
into close contact with legislative bodies and is certainly familiar with
their point of view. It is especially fortunate that he is en rapport with
Congress. The late President McKinley, who went from the House of
Eepresentatives into the White House, was a signal example of a Presi-
dent actually beloved by the men upon whom he was compelled to rely
for the enactment of laws which, in his judgment, were demanded by the
public interest. Mr. Taft may not enjoy so intimate a relation with Con-
gress, but there is no gainsaying the fact that he is accorded its most friendly
regard. This is a factor of no small importance. The Democratic party
came very near to being shattered through the hostility which existed
between President Cleveland and the Congress which he had upon his
/
202 "^^^^^ FORUM
hands, to quote Iiis own sarcastic phrase, while President Booeevel^ in
the closing days of his administration, was embarrassed by a Congress
somewhat estranged. It is a matter of no small concern, therefore, that
Hr. Taft enters npon his duties with the friendly feeling of Congress,
and it is safe to say that, with his great tactfolness, he will retain this
affection until the end of his term. The significance of this situation lies
in the fact that his recommendations as to l^islation will recelTe the
thoughtful and considerate attention of the national legiaUture and wiU^
so far as may be possibly be enacted into law.
President Ta|t will summon Congress to his assistance at the yery
be^nning of his administration. That body will be called to meet in
extraordinary session in the early part of the present
Revision of month. Hr. Taft, in a special message, will invite the
the Tariff attention of the l^islature to the necessity for revising
Imminent, the tariff, and several months will be spent in the con-
sideration of this important subject.
The changes in the tariff which are now to be secured have been
long postponed. The demand for revision has been insistent for many
years, but the men who regarded the present schedules as the quin-
tessence of perfection have been able to neutralize public insistence by de-
liberate inaction. The revisionists won a signal victory, however, when
they secured the adoption of a plank in the last Bepublican national plat-
form declaring unequivocally ''for the revision of the tariff by a special
session of Congress immediately following the inauguration of the next
President.^^ Four years previously, when the convention of 1904 was in
session, there was only the remotest reference to possible changes.
Now, however, the work must be undertaken; and if a thorough and
satisfactory result is not achieved, there is certain to be widespread
criticism. The Bepublican doctrine of protection is that a tariff shall
be imposed upon all imported products, whether of the factory, farm
or mine, sufficiently great to equal the difference between the cost of
production abroad and at home, and that this difference should, of
course, include the difference between the higher wages paid in .this
country and the wages paid abroad and embrace a reasonable profit to
the American producer. Mr. Taft, who has been a consistent tariff
revisionist, insists that these ideal conditions do not now exist. *TTie
tariff in a number of the schedules,*^ he says, "exceeds the difference
between the cost of production abroad and at home, including a reason-
able profit to the American producer. The excess over that difference
serves no useful purpose, but offers a temptation to those who would
THE INCOMING OF TAFFS ADMINISTRATION 203
monopolize the production and the sale of those articles in this country
to profit by the excessive rate. On the other hand, there are other
schedules in which the tariff is not sufficiently high to give the measure
of protection which they should receive upon Eepublican principles, and
as to those the tariff should be raised/^
Judging from the experience of the past, the natural tendency will
be to find a large number of these industries requiring protection and
to give willing ear to the appeal of the tariff-fed monopolies that their
future existence depends upon the maintenance of the high schedules
under which they have so selfishly fattened. It will be interesting to see
whether Congress will have the moral courage to deprive these monopolies
of the food upon which they have grown so great. The opportunity will
certainly present itself. Mr. Taft does not know and could hardly be
expected to know all the intricacies of the manifold schedules, but if he
will insist that no larger measure of protection be accorded than is
requisite to the fair degree of profit which, according to his view, is the
main reason for imposing a tariff, he will confer a notable boon upon
the American people. A few inquiries, judiciously interpolated during
the framing of the tariff bill, will acquaint him with the basis of the
proposed legislation and enable him to exercise a restraining hand against
the granting of excessive privilege.
The result of the election plainly demonstrated that organized labor,
as a body, did not r^ard Mr. Taft with disfavor, notwithstanding the
antagonistic attitude of a few of the leaders. Conse-
Taft*s Attitude q^ently, it seems almost trite to say that organized labor
Toward does not look upon Mr. Taff s entrance into the White
Labor House as being in any way detrimental to its interests.
It is true that Mr. Taft is not a partisan of the labor
unions. He has asserted with brief emphasis that there is a large body
of laborers, skilled and unskilled, who are not organized into unions,
but whose rights under the law are exactly the same as those of the
union men and are to be protected with the same care and watchfulness.
Any one familiar with his judicial decisions recognizes that this spirit
of equal justice to all is uppermost in Mr. Taft's mind. Such legislation
as he may recommend will, therefore, be in the interest of all labor and
not for the especial benefit of such working men as may hold a member-
ship card in a union.
As a matter of fact, but Uttle remains in the way of labor legislation
which Congress is likely to enact, for it may be taken for granted that
the extreme demands insisted upon by organized labor will not be en-
EC
204 THE FORUM
acted into law. There is alreadj a sUtnte allowing the onployee to
recover damages even if he is somewhat n^gent; tbe d^ hour law
for government employees and applying also to goremment oonstmction
has been in operation for some years; compensation for injury to govern-
ment employees has already been provided for, and, last but not least.
Congress has compelled the railroads to install safety appliances for the
protection of train men. In addition to these laws, which Hr. Taft
favorably regards, he will support l^;islation designed to afford notice
and hearing before the issuance of an injunction. He also declared him-
self in favor of a law which shall exactly define the rights of both parties
in a labor controversy. He is also willing that any person charged with
the violation of an order of injunction shall have the right under law
to appeal to some judge other than the one who issued the injunction
for a trial of the case. '1 admit,'' said Mr. Taft, ^^that there is a very
popular feeling that in contempt proceedings, and the very name of the
proceedings suggests it, the judge issuing the injunction has a per-
sonal sensitiveness in respect to its violation and therefore he does not
bring to the trial of the issue presented by the charge of contempt of
his order the calm, judicial mind which insures justice.''
These things Mr. Taft will approve; but all heaven and earth could
not bring him to believe that it would be wise to institute jury trials in
cases where contempt of court is charged. This is one demand of labor
that he will not bring to the attention of Congress with favorable en-
dorsement. He regards the proposition as the most insidious attack
itpon the judicial system ever made in the history of this country; and
any one who knows Mr. Taft's supreme regard for the courts knows that
W would sooner suffer the loss of his right arm than contribute, even
Mtrectly, to anything which could lessen the authority of the judges
^^•Aiag in general terms, the incoming administration will be less
"^^-mm ttian the one which is just closing. While similar in many
respects, being alike in their devotion to high ideals
and in their courageous grappling with great and
Jrodblesome problems, Mr. Roosevelt and Mr. Taft are
of \S^ different temperament The one is impnkiTe
praduction^'^*^ *^® ^^^^^ *® judicial and placid. One
Vmeriean prodn^C ^*^ *^ ^"°' ^"^^ ^ ^^ P^** ^
oae, but offerB^aT^^® reverberation, while the otiwr
^T instance, rushing mto a
THE INCOMING OF TAPT'S ADMINISTRATION 205
troversy in the fashion which, more than once, has attracted the attention
of the country dnring the past seven years. He has the legal mind,
which leads him to weigh carefully what he does and says, although when
his decision has been reached there is the full measure of determination
necessary to carry his purpose into full effect. Mr. Eoosevelt and Mr.
Taft may both reach the same conclusion; but Mr. Boosevelt arriyes
at his judgment by one spectacular and even hazardous leap, while Mr.
Taft approaches his decision by carefully reasoning out each step of
his progress. The two men have, in fact, distinct temperaments, al^
though, in practical result, they may both accomplish great work. In
the long run, Mr. Taft will make fewer mistakes.
There is another trait of Mr. Taff s character which deserves con-
sideration. His geniality is known to all who have met him. He has
a keen sense of humor — ^the saving grace of humor, as Emerson says —
and his laugh is hearty and sincere. At the same time he is never
undignified. He is pleasant and companionable always, but even as a
private citizen in the circle of his most familiar friends he does not
lose self-control. He is not as strenuous in his devotion to athletic sports
as Mr. Boosevelt, contenting himself with golf and preferring the com-
fort of the tonneau to the inconvenience of the saddle. He is a ready
writer and speaker, and his voice has a magnetic quality which appeals
to the ear. In his manner he is democratic and approachable. Above
all, he is possessed of tact and common-sense. The latter, after all, is a
prime requisite. In the solution of the many problems which are pre-
sented to the chief executive, right judgment is absolutely necessary; and
this characteristic is, after all, founded upon the possession, only too
rare, of a brain which is active, clear and calm. Mr. Taft has a brain
of this quality. His mental vision pierces quickly through the fog and
mist of abstract and abstruse questions and sees the substance lying
beyond. He does not worry unnecessarily, because he is naturally opti-
mistic; and yet he does not deal superficially with affairs nor lack in
studious consideration.
There is every reason to believe, therefore, that the administration of
Mr. Taft will mean much in the advancement of the country. He has
been tried and not found wanting; and inasmuch as he has done well in
all the lesser things, there ought to be no misgiving as to his creditable
and safe service in the future.
^ Henry Litchfield West.
THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE IN PORTO RICO
BY EOLAND P. FALKNBB
GommiBsioner of Education for Porto Rico, 1904-07
Whbnbvkb, as a result of war and conquest, two distinct races with
different tongues^ traditions, and mental habits find themselves linked
together as one body politic in the same region, the language question
in the public schools is a source of vexation and infinite irritation. A
happy combination of circumstances has shorn the problem in Porto
Bico of many of the difficulties which usually surround it
Porto Bico, indeed, fell into our hands as the result of war, but im-
resistingly and without stirring up the passions which war commonly
engenders. Among the people of the Island, the American troops were
deemed not conquerors but liberators. American administration of civil
affairs followed as a natural consequence and was adopted without serious
protest. It is undoubtedly true that the relatively large share of the
American element in the insidar administration is not welcome to all,
and that many of the people look upon us as intruders. One of the
leading men of the Island said recently, in a public address, 'There is a
patriotism of the heart— of sentiment— which resents the presence of the
stranger on Porto Bican soil, but there is a higher patriotism of the
mind — of reason — ^which recognizes the necessity of American sov-
ereignty for the well-being of the Island.^* This intellectual conviction,
which in the long run triumphs over the temporary ebullitions of hos-
tility, which race differences inevitably beget, has been a primary factor in
smoothing the way for the American administration in school matters,
as in everything else.
The spirit of the administratiou, though oft-times misunderstood,
has on the whole compelled the respect and sometimes the admiration of
the Porto Bican people. That there is any deep-seated affection for us
among them would be absurd to assert and probably most foolish to ex-
pect. Affection between different races is a rare phenomenon in history
if it has ever occurred. A mutual respect which bears fruit in mutual
forbearance is the limit to which the relations of two races can be ex-
pected to go.
These general considerations aid in explaining the evolution of the
language question in the schools of Porto Bico, and find practical ex-
emplification in this phase of our administration.
American institutions were welcomed by the people of Porto Bico,
not, of course, because they were American, but because they were demo-
THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE IN PORTO RICO 207
cratic. In a vague, general way they admired the nation's care for the
children in its schools, which is so striking a feature of our political
life. A reorganization of the school system in accord with American
institutions was one of the first things looked for in the new order of
things. The military government recognized the need and made im-
portant beginnings, which were continued by the civil administration
established in 1900.
It was obvious that political conditions had brought a new factor
into the school situation, namely, the English language. A place must
be created for it in the school curriculum, but what should the place be?
Upon what principles should it be based and what purposes should the
new instruction pursue?
No one dreamed of displacing the Spanish language either in the
schools or in the life of the people. As Porto Bico is already densely
populated, and as it cannot be expected that the population originating
in the United States would ever be numerically important, it would be
practically impossible for the English language to crowd out the Spanish.
Moreover, it would be highly imdesirable. No reasonable ground could
be brought forward for depriving the people of their heritage of the
Spanish tongue, with all its grace and beauty, and its adaptation to the
daily needs of a people of an imaginative and poetic temperament. Yet
the new relations with the United States, destined to grow more and
more intimate, made it highly desirable that the educated classes should
use both languages with equal facility. Commercial, political, and social
intercourse with the people of the United States will be greatiy facilitated
by a general knowledge of English. Nor can it be doubl^ that the
attainment of a bi-lingual state would contribute powerfully to the in-
tellectual progress of the people. The possession of more than one idiom
is an element of culture not to be despised, however imperfect may be
the comprehension of the acquired tongue.
If these results can be obtained it must be largely through the schools.
They are the standard bearers of the new sovereignty, called to the im-
portant duty of bringing to the people of Porto Eico a knowledge of the
language of the United States, and with it, of its history, its institutions
and its ideals. If we may borrow a phrase from current shoptalk in
school circles, the object of English instruction is in the highest degree
that of co-ordination. It has also that function in a humble and more
practical way — ^namely, that of co-ordinating the school instruction of
Porto Bico with the institutions of higher learning in the United States.
Colleges and professional schools do not exist in Porto Bico ; and in this
transition period of the Island^s development it is perhaps as well that
208
THE FORUM
they do not, since students who go to the States gain not only the ad-
vantages of a better equipment than the Island could hope to afford, but
also first-hand acquaintance with our institutions. To do this without
loss of time they must be well grounded in the English language before
they leave the Island.
The actual development of English instruction in the schools of
Porto Bico is interesting because it has not been a forced growth, but a
natural and unconscious evolution. The outcome is the result of the
competition of different methods. Such competition was not planned by
the school authorities, but grew up without their being conscious of its
significance. Six or seven years ago it would have seemed an utterly
foolish prophecy that in the year 1908 practically all the schools of the
towns and villages would be using the EngUsh language as the medium
of instruction — ^and yet this has come to pass quietly, unobtrusively, and
with the full approval and consent of the Porto Bican people.
Our first school efforts in the Island may be described as an attempt
to Americanize the Spanish school. We took from it little by little
everything except its language. The books we used were American text-
books translated — and sometimes very badly translated — ^into Spanish.
We placed everywhere American teachers as supervisors. At the outset
they knew little Spanish, comprehended but dimly what was going on
around them, and not infrequently made themselves ludicrous. But tEe
idea was a good one and the execution of it improved as the years went
on. These American supervisors were generally young and vigorous
men, trained in our public schools of the States, sometimes the graduates
of Normal Schools, more frequently of colleges. In later years they have
been appointed only after a year or more residence on the Island, and
have as a rule acquired such command of the Spanish language as the
needs of the position required. Their principal work has been to infuse
into the schools the methods and spirit of the American pubUc schools.
It has been said of them that they did not know the Island and its needs,
and in some few cases this may have been true — but it is equally true
that they knew schools in a sense that no Porto Bican could have known
them a few years ago.
To the supervisor we joined the teacher of English. Wherever there
was a group of four or more classes, an American teacher was sent to
teach the English language. Every day, he or she, for the American
woman teacher has had a large share in the work, met the several classes
and gave them lessons in English, and once a week taught the teachers
assembled from the entire district. The work was hard and often un-
profitable. Teachers came to us with excellent records from the States,
THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE IN PORTO RICO 209
who often fizzled out completely when it came to the task of teaching
their mother tongue to foreigners. Sometimes we failed to get the best
teachers. The way was long^ the compensation scanty^ and the oppor-
tunity, except when it appealed to some adventurous spirits eager to
escape the humdrum of life at home, did not attract the best teachers
from the States. Sometimes, too, the adventurous spirits drooped when
they found that they had only exchanged one monotony for another, and
left us often at the point when their services were beginning to be
effective.
Despite all discouragements the teachers of English did a good work.
The bright spot was the progress made by the Porto Bican teachers. The
translation method of instruction used universally at the outset was
naturally more effective with these adult scholars than with the imma-
ture pupils of the schools. Many a teacher of English can look back
with pride to some bright teachers among the Porto Bicans who gained a
knowledge of English from which sprang lasting friendships. This
work was destihed to have good fruit. In a vague way it was felt that
the Porto Bican children could best be reached through their own teach-
ers, but it may well be doubted whether the school authorities who es-
tablished this system realized that in a few years it would give such
splendid results. They discounted the zeal, the industry and the capacity
of the better class of Porto Bican teachers. Whatever credit is assigned
to the Americans who as supervisors and teachers directed the work, it
would be unjust not to give due meed of praise to the Porto Bican teach-
ers under whose conduct so much advance has been made in the schools
of Porto Bico.
But our efforts to teach English to the pupils under this system bore
no fruit commensurate with the effort. It is true that we abandoned
translations and gave our teaching by the direct and natural method.
But the teaching came but once or twice a day, and remained a thing
apart from the general routine of the school. It was practically an
''extra,'' as the boarding schools are prone to designate music and the
like. The attempt to graft English instruction upon a Spanish system
of schools led in short to little practical knowledge of the English lan-
guage. It had its place as a study, but it was not to the children a living
thing.
The Americanized Spanish school — ^for we had made such funda-
mental changes in methods that the term is a proper one — found a com-
petitor in the American school. We must now trace the origin of these
American schools taught wholly in the English language. In following
out the policy of furnishing a preparation for those pupils who wished
f
210
THE FORUM
to pursne advanced studies in the United States^ high schook were estab-
lished in San Jnan^ Ponce and Mayaguez. In them English had for
practical reasons a much larger scope than in the elementary schools.
In the first instance, there was a Spanish section and an English section
in these schools. The Spanish section was soon dropped and English
became the exclusive. language of the high schools. As feeders for the
high school, graded schools were established taught wholly in English by
American teachers. They soon come to be known in the community as
American schools. From the outset they were very popular and there was
always great pressure for admittance to them. There was a large body
of parents ambitious to have their children taught in the English Ian*
guage and appreciative of the advantages which would accrue from a
larger command of that tongue than would be gained in the other schools.
Spanish schools and English schools existed side by side and the people
voluntarily chose the English schools. This is the significant fact in the
evolution of the language question in Porto Bico and the steps by which
the exception became the rule are not uninteresting.
In the capital city of San Juan the first step was taken in 1903.
The graded school attached to the high school was unable to accommo-
date all the children who wanted to enter it. The school board of the
city, of its own motion, proposed that another American school be estab-
lished. As funds were low in the insular treasury, it offered to pay from
its own funds the salaries of half the teachers. The teachers were
equally divided between Porto Bicans and Americans. The Porto Bican
teachers selected had been in the United States and had acquired an
excellent command of English. They were the first Porto Bicans au-
thorized to teach in the language, but they were exceptionally qualified.
The experiment worked well. In the city of Ponce there had been a
like demand upon the resources and capacity of the American school.
It was overcrowded and there were many who felt themselves aggrieved
by being refused admittance. They had, too, a real grievance, since they
were not so well prepared for high school work as those who attended the
American school. Such distinctions led to bitterness, and the Superin-
tendent of Schools in 1904 conceived the bold plan of placing all the
schools of the city on an English basis. He assured the Board of Edu-
cation that he had several Porto Bican teachers ready to give their les-
sons in English and that others could soon be trained to do so. With
some misgivings, he was allowed to try his experiment, and the fall of
1904 opened with all the children of Ponce learning their daily tasks in
the language of the United States. Such an experiment was bound to
have weak spots and there were certain defects of organization which
THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE IN PORTO RICO 211
subsequent experience has corrected. But by and large it was a splendid
success. It was indeed feared that the learning of a new idiom would
put the children back a year or more in their studies^ but experience
showed this fear to be groundless. The effort of attention necessary
to understand the language resulted in increased concentration on the
subject-matter of instruction and pupils advanced normally in their
grades. Most significant was the demonstration that many of the Porto
Bican teachers had made sufiBcient advance in English to use that lan-
guage as a medium of instruction. The seeds planted by an earlier
administration had indeed borne fruit. Careful supervision was more
necessary than before^ and heroic effort had indeed to be made to elimi-
nate faults of pronunciation and enunciation among the new teachers.
But they bore the test splendidly^ and those who visit the schools of
Ponce to-day marvel at the results.
In the same year San Juan adopted English as the school language
in half of its schools, and in the following year in all of them. A more
rational organization of the grades attached to the high schools was
adopted, those grades taught by American teachers becoming grammar
schools. Instruction in the first year was given generally in Spanish,
but in all the higher grades in English. Tip to the fifth grade the work
was entrusted to Porto Bican teachers ; in the upper grades, requiring a
more extensive vocabulary, American teachers being employed. Special
care was now given to Spanish as a subject of study and special teachers
of that language were employed to give instruction in those grades where
the regular work was in charge of American teachers.
The transformation in the two chief towns of the Island was com-
pleted in September, 1905. Little by little other towns followed as
opportunity offered. The central administration was besieged by propo-
sitions from superintendents and school boards to place the schools on
an English basis. But haste was made slowly. The authorization could
not be given until teachers were available for the purpose. Examina-
tions were instituted to test the fitness of the Porto Bican teachers to do
their work in English. An astonishing number qualified for this work.
Many of them are of the younger generation, graduates of the American
schools and of the Insular normal school, but there is a very considerable
quota of the older teachers who adapted themselves to this new develop-
ment.
As a result of these changes the school system in the towns and vil-
lages has been wholly transformed. The American school, with the
help of the Porto Bican teachers, has practically crowded out the Ameri-
canized Spanish school. In 1905 there were 74 schools taught in Eng-
212 '^^^^ FORUM
liflh; in 1906^ 160; and in 1907, 389. In the meantime the nnmber
of American teachen has diminished ratlier than increased. The mam
work has been accomplished by the Porto Bican teachers, of whom 280
were giving their regnlar work in the English language in 1907. As
there were about 500 graded schools in the Island, English has become
the dominant language of the town sdiools. Not the least significant
feature of this remarkable development has been the fact that it has be^
accomplished with the full approbation and consent of the Porto Bican
people. This finds expression in bills introduced in the House of dele-
gates fixing dates when all the schools shall be taught exdusiyely in the
English language. Porto Bican teachers authorized to teach in the Eng-
lish language are a separate cat^ory of teachers. The assignment of
teachers to a given locality is on petition of the local board. The central
administration is powerless to impose this form of instruction upon any
locality which does not want it. It cannot be introduced except upon
local demand. But that demand in the last three years has been insistent
and gratifying, as is the progress recorded; it would have been still
greater had the central administration been able to comply more fully
with local wishes.
If the object of our administration of our dependencies is to bring
them in closer touch with the nation at large, may we not regard the
evolution of the school language in Porto Bico as a singularly happy
contribution to this end? And in so believing we need not pufE our-
selves up by asserting that it is due to any statesmanlike foresight We
simply had the good sense not to force matters, and scarcely realizing it,
we offered to the people of Porto Bico a choice. The people of Porto
Bico had good sense to make a wise choice.
Boland P. FaJhner.
PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT PLAYS
BY CLAYTON HAMILTON
Thb clever title. Plays Pleasant and Unpleasant, which Mr. Bernard
Shaw selected for the earliest issue of his dramatic writings, suggests a
theme of criticism that Mr. Shaw, in his lengthy pref-
The aces, might profitably have considered if he had not
Pursuit of preferred to devote his entire space to a discussion of
Happiness i^ q^^ abilities. In explanation of his title the author
stated only that he labelled his first three plays Unpleas-
ant for the reason that "their dramatic power is used to force the spec-
tator to face unpleasant facts." This sentence, of course^ is not
a definition, since it merely repeats the word to be explained; and there-
fore, if we wish to find out whether or not an unpleasant play is of any
real service in the theatre, we shall have to do some thinking of our own.
It is an axiom that aJl things in the universe are interesting. The
word interesting means capable of awakening some activity of human
mind; and there is no imaginable topic, whether pleasant or unpleasant,
which is not, in one way, or another, capable of this effect. But the ac-
tivities of the human mind are various, and there are therefore several*
different sorts of interest. The activity of mind awakened by music over
waters is very different from that awakened by the bjnomial theorem.
Some things interest the intellect, others the emotions; and it is only
things of prime importance that interest them both. Now if we com-
pare the interest of pleasant and unpleasant topics, we shall see at once
that the activity of mind awakened by the former is more complete than
that awakened by the latter. A pleasant topic not only interests the in-
tellect but also elicits a response from the emotions ; but most unpleasant
topics are interesting to the intellect alone. In so far as the emotions
respond at all to an unpleasant topic, they respond merely with a nega-
tive activity. Regarding a thing which is unpleasant, the healthy mind
will feel aversion, or else will merely think about it with no feeling
whatsoever. But regarding a thing which is pleasant, the mind may be
stirred through the entire gamut of positive emotions, rising ultimately
to that supreme activity which is Love. This is, of course, the philo-
sophic reason why the thinkers of pleasant thoughts and dreamers of
beautiful dreams stand higher in history than those who have thought
impleasantness and have imagined woe.
Returning now to that clever title of Mr. Shaw's, we may define an
unpleasant play as one which interests the intellect without at the same
214 THE FORUM
time awakening a positive lesponse from the emotions; and we may de-
fine a pleasant play as one which not only stimulates thought but also
elicits sympathy. To any one who has thoroughly considered the con-
ditions governing theatric art it should be evident a priori that pleasant
plays are better suited for service in the theatre than unpleasant plays.
This truth is clearly illustrated by the facts of Mr.* Shaw's career. As
a matter of history^ it will be remembered that his vogue in our theatres
has been confined almost entirely to his pleasant plays. All four of
them have enjoyed a profitable run; and it is to Candida, the best of
his pleasant plays, that, ?n America at least, he owes his fame. Of the
three unpleasant plays. The Philanderer has never been produced at all;
Widower's Houses has been given only in a series of special mating;
and Mrs. Warren's Profession, though it was enormously advertised by
the fatuous interference of the police, failed to interest tiie public when
ultimately it was offered for a run.
Mrs. Warren's Profession is just as interesting to the thoughtful
reader as Candida. It is built with the same technical efficiency, and
written with the same agility and wit; it is just as sound and true, and
therefore just as moral; and as a criticism, not so much of life as of
society, it is indubitably more important. Why then is Candida a better
work? The reason is that the unpleasant play is interesting merely to
the intellect and leaves the audience cold, whereas the pleasant play is
interesting also to the emotions and stirs the audience to sympathy. It
is possible for the public to feel sorry for Morell; it is even possible for
them to feel sorry for Marchbanks: but it is absolutely impossible for
them to feel sorry for Mrs. Warrrai. The multitude instinctively demand
an opportunity to sympathize with the characters presented in the
theatre. Since the drama is a democratic art, and the dramatist is not
the monarch but the servant of the public, the voice of the people should,
in this matter of pleasant and unpleasant plays, be considered the voice
of the gods. This thesis seems to me axiomatic and unsusceptible of
argument. Yet since it is continually denied by the TJplifters, who per-
sist in looking down upon the public and decrying the wisdom of the
many, it may be necessary to explain the eternal principle upon which
it is based.
The truth must be self-evident that theatre-goers are endowed with
a certain inalienable right, — ^namely, the pursuit of happiness. The pur-
suit of happiness is the most important thing in the world, because it is
nothing less than an endeavor to imdergtand and to appreciate the true,
the beautiful, and the good. Happiness comes of loving things which are
worthy; a man is happy in proportion to the number of things which
PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT PLAYS 215
he has learned to love; and he, of all men, is most happy who loveth
best all things both great and small. For happiness is the feeling of
harmony between a man and his surroundings, the sense of being at
home in the universe and brotherly toward all worthy things that are.
The pursuit of happiness is simply a continual endeavor to discover
new things that are worthy, to the end that they may waken love within
us and thereby lure us loftier toward an ultimate absolute awareness
of truth and belLuty. It is in this simple, sane pursuit that people go
to the theatre. The important thing about the public is that it has a
large and longing heart. That heart demands that sympathy be wakened
in it, and will not be satisfied with merely intellectual discussion of un-
sympathetic things. It is therefore the duty, as well as the privilege,
of the dramatist to set before the public incidents which may awaken
sympathy and characters which may be loved. He is the most important
artist in the theatre who gives the public most to care about. This is
the reason why Joseph Jefferson's Rip Van Winkle must be rated as the
greatest creation of the American stage. The play was shabby as a work
of art, and there was nothing even in the character to think about; but
every performance of the part left thousands happier, because their lives
had been enriched with a new memory that made their hearts grow warm
with sympathy and large with love.
Mr. Eugene Walter is gifted with undeniable ability as a maker of
plays. His present piece. The Easiest Way, fulfills the technical promise
of Paid in Full, and is, according to artistic standards,
"The ^^® ^^ *^® ^^* plays of the year. It is, however, an
Easiest unpleasant play, and necessitates the question whether
Way" Mr. Walter's abilities might not have been more profit-
ably employed in handling material of more importance.
The heroine, Laura Murdock, is a young woman devoid of moral
consciousness and therefore empty of emotion. She drifts through life
along the line of least resistance. After a somewhat promiscuous past
she becomes the mistress of Willard Brockton, a man of wealth and
weariness. Brockton, like herself, is incapable of emotion. He keeps
her, not because he loves her, but because she looks ornamental beside
him at midnight suppers. A young newspaper reporter, John Madison
by name, gets an idea into his head that he would like to marry Laura.
He knows all about her past and present life; but his infatuation leads
him to believe that Laura would make for him the best of wives, for the
reason that he himself has lived a careless and profligate youth. The
bland infatuation of Madison kindles within Laura a sensation which
218 THE FORUM
she thmks to be emotion. She considers herself in love, and states the
case to Brockton. Brockton, who does not love her, is incapable of jeal-
ousy. In a worldly-wise manner he advises Madison that the lady is
expensive and is scarcely the sort of person to make a help-meet for a
man without money; but when Madison announces his intention to make
a fortune while the lady waits for him, Brockton agrees to for^o his
patronage of Laura and to withdraw from the triangular situation. He
promises, however, that if Laura, of her own free will, returns to him,
he will immediately inform Madison of her reversion to type.
Laura, left to her own devices, fails to earn her living and is soon
reduced to the verge of starvation. In despair she follows the easiest way
and returns to Brockton. He makes her write a letter informing Madi-
son of her resumption of the old relation; but this letter she has not
sufficient strength of character to send, and, without letting Brockton
know, destroys. Madison makes his fortune and comes to claim his
bride. Her deception and her unworthiness are revealed simultaneously
to the two men. Madison rejects her because she has been unfaithful,
and Brockton rejects her because she has lied to him and made him
seem a liar in the eyes of Madison. Nobody shoots anybody, because
nobody cares deeply enough to act in the ordinary, human, melodramatic
way. Laura wants to kill herself, but lacks the necessary steadiness
of character. Instead, she rushes forth to make a hit at a midnight
supper, and to slip ultimately lower and lower down the easy descent.
This unpleasant play is firmly built, and simply and directly written.
The first act, which expounds the triangular compact that becomes the
basis of the subsequent action, is somewhat difficult to believe, because
it is hard to appreciate the unusually unemotional motives of the extraor-
dinary trio. But granted the first act, the rest of the play follows with
inevitable logic. The author fails at all points to awaken sympathy for
his characters ; but the story is interesting to the intellect. The action
maintains a firm hold upon the attention because it moves swiftly along a
straightforward and unwavering course. The details of the drama are
imitated closely from actuality, and are even, within the limits of the
phase of life depicted, true. Certain scenes, like a passage in the second
act between Laura and a more fiaunting and befeathered lady of the
demi-monde, are thoroughly commendable as psychologic studies. The
dialogue is admirably suited to the characters, and with interesting art
is kept upon a consistent level of vulgar slang.
Not only is The Easiest Way an efficient work of art; it is also tm-
impeachable on the score of morality. The grounds on which the moral-
ity of any serious drama should logically be determined have more than
PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT PLAYS 217
OBce been set forth with sufficient fulness by the present writer. The
Easiest Way is not immoral^ because the author does not tell lies specifi-
cally about any of the people in his story, and because he does not allure
the audience to generalize falsely in regard to life at large from the
specific circumstances of his play. Furthermore, the piece is neither
indecent nor indelicate; and at no point does it titillate the prurient
imagination. Mr. Walter's statement in the daily press that his motive
for writing it was a desire to teach a noble moral lesson by exposing
some of the sins of society is, of course, untrue; because no man with
such a silly purpose could write so good a play. But just as baseless
and absurd have been the attacks directed against the morality of the
piece in column after column of the newspapers of New York.
The one thing that is really wrong with The Easiest Way is that the
play is not interesting to the emotions. It is a thoroughly true, and
therefore moral, study of certain unfortunate and unimportant people
with whom it is impossible for the audience to feel any human sympathy.
The action is interesting merely to the intellect, and leaves the audi-
ence cold. From the point of view of the observer, it does not matter
what may happen to the characters, because the worst that may happen
will serve them right. The play is entirely devoid of passion ; the rela-
tions between the characters result from chill, disinterested calculation.
The piece, therefore, defrauds the audience, by failing to present to their
Attention entanglements with which they may sympathize and characters
for whom they may care. In the natural pursuit of happiness they bring
to the theatre a large heart longing to love some aspect of life or some
character imaginably harmonious with their own experience; and in-
stead they are confronted with a woman without morals and two men
without ideals, for whom they find it impossible to feel so much as
Bony. Upon this simple and important human ground, this play,
though admirable in art and unimpeachable in morality, fails to satisfy
the audience. Because it is unpleasant, it does not add to anybody's
happiness. Therefore, in comparison with a pleasant play like Mr.
Barriers What Every Woman Knows, it pales into unimportance and
must be regarded as a waste of work.
The Dawn of a To-morrow, by Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnett, gives
evidence of a laudatory intention on the part of the playwright. She
started out with a religious idea which was not only pleasant but
important; but unfortunately, during the course of her story, she de-
veloped this idea beyond its limits and thereby stretched its truth to
falsity.
218 THE FORUM
The health of Sir Oliver Holt is shattered by a nervous breakdown,
and his physicians give him up to die. He revolts against the prospect
of languishing disintegration; and disguising himself
"The Dawn ^^ shabby dothes^ goes forth to shoot himself in some
of a obscure quarter of the slums of London^ where hia
To-Morrow** identity will not be known. In the slums he runs
across a girl named Olad, who confronts the heart-
ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to with an in-
domitable cheerfulness of mood. She assures him that things are never
so bad as they seem, and that deliberate hopefulness religiously main-
tained within the spirit can conquer conditions that would seem invinci-
ble to a despairing soul. Sir Oliver is charmed by the sunny tempera-
ment of the girl and interested by her philosophy. He postpones his
purpose of suicide, and watches her behavior through a series of cir-
cumstances in which she manages to save her lover from being arrested
for a crime of which he is innocent by winning the unwilling assistance
of Sir Oliver's own profligate son. In the end Sir Oliver is cheered out
of .his despair, and the prospect is offered that he may recover from his
illness after all.
This is, of course, an interesting story; but it was told very crudely
for the purposes of the stage. It was evident at all points that the author
was a novdist rather than a dramatist. Much that should have been
shown in action was expounded in speech, and the plot progressed very
slowly through obstructive disquisitions. The people of the story lacked
concreteness of characterization; they were types, instead of being in-
dividuals. The spectator was repeatedly disturbed by the anachronism
of foregone expedients, such as the soliloquy and the aside. At many
moments it was too evident that the author was a woman. In the second
act she permitted everybody to tell the story of his life to everybody else,
and sicklied the dialogue with sentimental religiosity. Yet the piece
was so interesting in a story-booky sort of way that these crudities might
all have been forgiven, except for a central falsity that arose from the
author's extravagant treatment of her theme.
It is indubitably true that, in the long run, the sort of things that
will happen to a man will be determined, to a great extent, by the sort
of person that he is, and that therefore he will master his destiny in
proportion as he masters himself. Comes he to achieve within himself a
mood of dauntless cheerfulness, it will become true of him, as of Emer-
son's poet, that the impressions of the actual world shall fall like sum-
mer rain, copious, but not troublesome, to his invulnerable essence. It
is true, of course, that nervous and hysterical diseases can have no power
PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT PLAYS 219
over a man who is too busy thinking of more interesting things to think
about his nerves. The way to get over sea-sickness is to love the sea
so gloriously that you have no leisure to be bothered about your own in-
sides. The way to cure green-sickness is to buy a ham and see life. All
this is very true. But, on the other hand, it is also true that you cannot
cure a fractured skull by trying to forget it, and that no amount of
deliberate wishing will add one cubit unto your stature.
When the cockney heroine of Mrs. Burnett's story wants something
very much, she has a habit of **arstin', arstin', arstinV' and the author
tries to make us believe that she always gets it then and there. If she
is in trouble, she asks very hard ; and at once the telephone rings with a
saving message, or a knock upon the door reveals the presence of a timely
intercessor. All this, of course, is false; and it is that silliest sort of
falsehood which results from the exaggeration of a great and simple
truth.
Many miracles may be effected by the power of a mood. It is
entirely true that the enchantments of Comus lost their efficacy when
they were confronted by the pure mood of the virgin-minded Lady. It
is true that Stevenson was too busy and too happy to die, when, in de-
fiance of the doctors, he sat up in bed and wrote off Dr, Jekyll and Mr.
Hyde, But to say that if I want a steam-yacht to play with, all that
I need to do is to think about it very hard, and lo ! the river shall rise
and float one serenely to my doorstep, is not only nonsensical but in a
serious sense immoral. In positing a Providence that sends some one to
knock upon the door whenever her heroine needs to be protected, Mrs.
Burnett reduces the idea of God to the idea of a Jack-in-the-box. If this
philosophy should be believed, it might lead to dangerous procedures.
Somebody, for instance, might think very hard that the law of gravita-
tion was untrue, and, buoyant with this belief, might jump out of the
window. Thoreau got along without money by making up his mind that
money was unnecessary to him. He achieved wealth by ignoring it.
But when he wanted a piece of pie, he didn't twiddle his toes in Walden
Pond, and ask, and ask, and ask; he arose like a man, and walked a
mile and a half, and knocked at Emerson's back door.
In The Third Degree Mr. Charles Klein has fabricated a very inter-
esting melodrama. Young Howard Jeffries drifts into the apartments
of his friend, Robert Underwood, and, dreary with many drinks, sinks
deeply asleep upon the sofa. While Jeffries is sleeping. Underwood kills
himself. Some hours afterward, Jeffries is discovered trying to find
his way out of the apartment,- and is accused of murdering his friend.
220 THE FORUM
He tells the truth, but the truth is not believed. The police captain
strives for seven consecutive hours, by every means of psychologic tor-
ture, to make him admit the crime. At last the befuddled mind of Jeff-
ries is weakened beyond capacity for further resistance;
"The and in a sort of hypnosis, he repeats word for word a
Third confession that the captain formulates and thrusts upon
Degree'* him. Jeffries, whose family is very rich, has already
been disowned by his father for marrying a waitress. His
father now believes him guilty of murder, and refuses to stand by him.
His only friend is the wife with whom his family will not associate. This
girl, Annie Jeffries, though vulgar and uneducated, is a person of simple
truth and steadfastness of character. Alone and dauntlessly she fights
for her husband^s freedom. By persistency of appeal she ultimately en-
lists the services of an eminent lawyer, Bichard Brewster, who is obliged
to sacrifice his lucrative practice with the elder Jeffries when, against the
latter's will, he espouses the cause of the son. Brewster, with the
assistance of Annie, finally establishes the innocence of Annie^s hus-
band; and the various members of the Jeffries family gradually awaken
to a realization of her worth.
This play is interesting in plot, and suflSciently human in character-
ization. It is compactly built and naturally written. Two of the char-
acters are untrue, — namely, the father and notably the step-mother of
young Jeffries, — ^but in Annie the author has drawn a genuine and ap-
pealing human figure. This character is the truest and the most in-
teresting that Mr. Klein has yet given to the stage. The first act of
the play is exceedingly well-made, and, except in the lines of the elder
Mrs. Jeffries, is very well written. Prom the technical standpoint, this
one act is the best piece of work that Mr. Klein has ever done. The
second act is very nearly as good; but the third act, though well-sus-
tained in material, becomes somewhat wobbly in the handling, and se-
cures its effect only through the introduction of incidents impossible in
fact. The last act exhibits a mild but unobjectionable subsidence in the
interest.
The Third Degree is not an important play, because it isnH about
anything which is of serious significance to humanity. But it does
present a real character and tell an interesting story with theatric skill.
It is by far the best play that Mr. Klein has written. It is more skilful
than The Music Muster and more real than The TAon and the Mouse.
Mr. Klein is a craftsman rather than an artist, but he has a considerable
following in our theatres, and it is worthy of record that in his present
piece he has made a decisive and commendable advance.
PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT PLAYS 221
A condition precedent to criticism is the existence of something to be
criticised. Concerning Kassa the critic can say nothing. Upon the
programme appears the name of John Luther Long.
It is always pleasant to remember that Mr. Long once
"Kassa** wrote a beautifully human and dramatic story, entitled
Madam Butterfly, which deservedly has been heard
around the world.
The New Lady Bantock, by Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, is a bothersome
bit of work, for the reason that it ought to be immeasurably better than
it is. Young Vernon Wetherell falls in love with a
"The New g^rl of the music halls. He wishes her to marry him
Lady for himself alone, and therefore does not tell her that
Bantock" he is wealthy and a nobleman. Only after their mar-
riage, when he takes her to Bantock Hall, does she
learn that he is in reality Lord Bantock. It happens that a single family
has for generations furnished all the servants of Bantock Hall; and it
turns out that the present members of this family are the new Lady Ban-
tock^s next of kin. She enters the house to discover that the butler
is her uncle, the housekeeper her aunt, and that her maids and menser-
vants are her cousins. This, of course, the young Lord Bantock does
not know. To make matters more embarrassing, her relatives have al-
ways disapproved of her. They are a straight-laced lot and have never
forgiven her the shocking move of going on the stage. They are in-
sufferably traditional and conventional, and now undertake to teach
Lady Bantock how to behave. They make her life so unbearable that,
in an ultimate outburst, she discharges them all and tells the incon-
gruous truth to her husband. In the end Lord Bantock brings about
a truce between his wife and her butler-imcle, and there is a prospect of
happy living in the future.
It must be evident at once that the idea which is the basis of this
story is in itself unusually amusing. It might be given a farcical de-
velopment, and the central incongruity of situation might be made the
occasion for uproarious merriment. Or it might be developed along the
lines of high comedy and be made the occasion for social satire at once
witty and wise. The disappointing thing about The New Lady Bantock
is that Mr. Jerome's handling of the theme is ineffective. The play fails
of excellence as farce, because it is deficient in action. The incongruity
of situation is talked about, over and over again, in tedious repetitions;
but the myriad funny things that might happen never do. On the other
hand, the play fails of excellence as comedy, because its characters are
222
THE FORUM
merely sketched in outline and because the dialogue is slow and devoid
of brilliancy. At the climax the author tries for pathos and strikes a
note of falsity. A serious culmination is not really inherent in his theme,
and he brings it about only by obviously artificial means. The play
on the whole is tantalizing, because each successive scene, as it is intro-
duced, suggests comic and dramatic possibilities which the author fails
to realize. It is very disappointing to see a good thing badly done.
The Goddess of Reason^ is a tale of the French Revolution told in
verse by Miss Maiy Johnston, author of sundry popular historical ro-
mances. Yvette, a peasant girl of Brittany, is the
**^\^^ natural daughter of a nobleman and consequently a
Goddess of cousin by blood of the Baron of Morbec. Morbec has
Reason" once met her in a forest and loved her at sight. She
leads an uprising of the peasants, which is put down
by Morbec, who shows them clemency because of his love for her. He
places her in the shelter of a convent, where in solitude she dreams upon
her love of him. To her, however, it seems that Morbec is in love with
^he Marquise of Blanchefor§t. Therefore, in jealousy, she leaves the
convent in company with Remond Lalain, a leader in the Revolution
and an enemy of Morbec. After the legislative abolishment of Ood, she
is made, through Lalain's influence, a living symbol of the Goddess of
Reason, and proceeds in triumph through the streets of Nantes. The
Revolutionary rabble encounter Morbec and clamor for his death; but
Yvette pleads with them for clemency and secures immunity for him.
Discovering, however, a moment later, that the Marquise of BlancheforSt
is in his company, she suffers a revulsion of feeling, and hands them
both over to the f uiy of the crowd. After they are imprisoned, she un-
dergoes another revulsion of remorse and love. By selling herself to
Lalain, she buys their pardon. It comes too late, however, to save the
life of the Marquise. In the judgment hall Morbec reviles Lalain and
is condemned to death; and Yvette, arising, curses the court and the
Revolution, and is condemned to die with Morbec. Together the lovers
are cast into the Loire.
This conventional story is set forth in a melodrama which is nar-
rative rather than dramatic, and in which the action is swamped beneath
floods of talk. The actors in the story are not realized as characters.
They wear red caps and sing La Marseillaise, but they fail to convince
the audience of essential humanity. Most of them have a habit of solilo-
^The Oodd€88 of Reciaon. By Mary John8toii. Boston and New York: Hough-
ton, Mifflin and Company. 1007.
PLEASANT AND UNPLEASANT PLAYS
quizing at length about matters irrelevant to the moment. The author
has attempted to lift this hollow fabric into literature by writing it in
verse. Of this endeavor the only pertinent criticism is that dramatic
literature is not a matter of mere words but a matter of telling the
truth about real people in real situations. As verse, the writing of Miss
Johnston does not detain consideration. Her verse is monotonously
end-stopped and evidences no knowledge whatsoever of the elementary
principles of phrasing and rhythmic variation. The author apparently
is unaware that it is possible to set a complete pause at any place in a
pentametrical line except the very end. The only merit of her writing
is that it is simple in diction and shows a commendable avoidance of
inversions. The piece is tedious to read ; but in the theatre it is made
almost worth seeing by the interpretative talents of a very able actressy
In the theatre bad verse may be made to sound like good poetry by a
performer who supplements the natural gifts of a beautiful presence and
a melodious voice by a trained talent for reading. Good acting can
sometimes transform an unreal part into a real character. Miss Johnston
has been fortunate in the actress of Yvette : considered by and for itself
her play is negligible.
Clayton Hamilton.
THE SILENT SISTERS OF THE POOH
BY GEOBGE HERBERT CLARKE
Meekly^ with folded hands and patient brows.
Come two from out the shadow-deepened door;
A cross is on the altar of their House, —
It hushed their voices while it heard their vows;
Ay me,— the Silent Sisters of the Poor !
The cross upon the altar is of gold,
And coldly gleams in the chill chapel air; —
Is it for this their bosoms are so cold.
Nor beat as they were wont to beat of old? —
Or is a wintry cross enfix6d there?
The sun is dimly drooping down the west;
The ancient House against his glory stands
Sombre and gaunt and dark; and darkly drest
Two figures seem to fade within its breast
Meekly, with patient brows and folded hands*
George Herbert Clarke.
AN UNLEARNED LESSON FROM WAGNER
BY FREDERICK R. BURTON
Many years have passed since the Wagner controversy ceased to agi-
tate the world of music. Wagner has come into his own, as the saying
is ; his work is established, and we drift on, self-satisfied that his influ-
ence is manifested in every form of musical art. We have learned all
about the leit-motiv; the once derided and misunderstood "infinite mel-
ody" has come to be so much a matter of course that we have forgotten
the term; we have learned to memorize symbolical themes, and to adjust
our mental processes to their orderly, or disorderly recurrence; appre-
ciation of orchestral color has come to be so general that we well-nigh
overlook the advisability, not to say the necessity, of original melody as
the canvas for the color; we even imagine that dramatic unity has been
infused into the opera because the action is now more synchronous with
the music than it used to be, because the recitativo secco has been dis-
placed by more or less musical declamation, and because the orchestra
is supposed to keep the musical interest unbroken- when the demands of
the drama require concentration on the action. So well has the musical
public learned these things that innovators who are trumpeted as out-
Wagnering Wagner are received with more than respectful attention in
opera house and concert room, and nothing is too cacophonous or un-
lovely to escape its meed of hysterical and apparently intelligent ap-
plause.
Because Wagner's works tended toward the broadening of the limits
of form, toward greater and more agreeable diversity than the art of
music had before his time, it is natural that some of the deplorable fea-
tures of modem music should be charged to him, as if he should be held
responsible for the errors of his imitators. But, acknowledging the
wholesome advances in music that are attributable to his influence, we
may be sure that the art will work out its problems to a future basis of
sanity and beauty, and, for the present, looking toward the opera, where
alone Wagner's genius was directed with marvellous insight, observe
that one of the most important lessons he undertook to inculcate has been
ignored. The book of the opera, all appearances of progress to the con-
trary notwithstanding, has not been improved. It has been reformed, but
not to its indubitable advantage. Certain objectionable features of the
libretto have been discarded, but features equally objectionable have
taken their place.
Wagner cried aloud for the unity of the arts, and contemporary com-
AN UNLEARNED LESSON FROM WAGNER 225
posers and librettists, undertakihg to profit by his teaching, have con-
trived a form of opera that approximates to the spoken drama in the con-
tinuity of its action. The chorus is employed with intelligent regard
to its dramatic purpose. Arias take their origin from the situation, and
are not lugged in without reason. Great regard is had for the story,
that it shall abound in human interest and be effectively told. All
this seems to be an advance on the ancient opera of, say, fifty years
ago, and the method is in the main correct. The vital error lies in the
nature of the subjects chosen by the librettists and sanctioned by the
composers.
From the time when his art principles were fully formed and under-
stood in his own mind, Wagner peopled the stage with no personages
who could be called modem. In the main he chose his subjects from
mythology, and when he did not, he harked so far back in history that
his people appeal to us with much the same mistiness as his demigods
and magicians. In so doing he established a principle well-nigh as vital
as form itself. The opera has no business in the field of contem-
poraneous events. Inasmuch as it makes music an essential factor in
its structure, it should have due regard to the limitations of music, as
well as to its boundless potentiality for the expression of beauty, and the
drama should be so constructed as to permit of music its highest pos-
sible eflBciency. In opera of the present day both the musical efficiency
and the dramatic efficiency are sacrificed ; both are mauled and distorted
in the vain attempt to make a satisfactory art work of the combination ;
and the failure to achieve a satisfactory result is the fault, not of the
music, or the theory according to which it was composed, not of the
method of the librettist, but of the nature of his subject. In other
words, the libretto of the post- Wagnerian music-drama is bad ; a hope-
less vehicle for music, an impossible factor in music-drama. To be
specific. La Boheme, Madama Butterfly, La Tosca, Cavalleria Rusticana,
I Pagliacci, and many others, should be condemned because their books
are bad ; they never should have been set to music.
There is a standard objection to opera as an art form which is too
familiar to need extended exposition. It is usually expressed in a
humorous vein, as if the objector were conscious that he would be re-
garded as a Philistine by the elect, and therefore couched his argument
with foreknowledge that no opera lover would condescend to reply to it ;
but the objection is well founded and worthy of serious examination.
The argument in behalf of opera involves a frank dismissal of reason;
we are asked to accept the posit of the makers of the work and regard
the stage people as human beings deprived of certain characteristics and
226
THE FORUM
endowed with others of an extraordinary nature. We are to assume that
these personages love, hate, give way to passion, exercise self-abnega-
tion, pray, rejoice, sorrow, and so forth, as we do; but that ordinary
restraint in the matter of expressing their feelings is utterly unknown
to them; that they are human beings who cannot help voicing their deep-
est, subtlest thoughts as well as their most superficial, transitory emo-
tions; that they express them in loud tones addressed either to other
personages, or to receptive space ; that, moreover, they are beings whose
sole vehicle of language is song.
Reason tells us that such human beings do not exist, and the demand
of the opera maker is, therefore, a severe one; but it is proper, neverthe-
less, and, with the book of the opera properly constructed, not even a
blasphemous humorist can object to it. The justification for the humor-
ist lies in the fact that the posit of the contemporary opera maker com-
pels him not only to dismiss his reason, but to eliminate ordinary intelli-
gence from his system. When the stage people are such familiar types
as are seen in La Boheme or Madama Butterfly, he finds the demand
impossible. He knows that human beings under the heart-rending cir-
cumstances of those dramas would not sing, and he cannot disabuse his
mind of the inconsistency. As well people the stage with Smith, his
grocer, and Brown, his next-door neighbor, and set them to singing
of last night's disastrous fire, or the campaign against tuberculosis. The
result, in that case, would be farce, no matter with what seriousness, and
excellent tenor and barytone voices, his familiars expressed themselves.
It is to be suspected that current grand operas are saved from relegation
to the category of farce by the fact that the familiar types therein sing
in a foreign language.
Let us suppose that the objector is good enough, and strong-willed
enough, to accept the posit of the librettist with regard to these person-
ages; that he shuts his eyes to the ridiculous inconsistency of beings like
himself who never open their mouths but to sing; he then has an un-
pardonable offence to charge against the composer. The librettist has
aroused a strong human interest in the stage people and their circum-
stances ; comes the composer at a critical moment, and every moment is
critical in a stirring drama, and compels the observer to await develop-
ments for the slow unfolding of music. When the familiar types should
do familiar, intelligible things, they must pause for song; when they
should run, they must walk, if, indeed, the demands of music do not
require them to stand still. The normal course of the drama is per-
verted for the sake of music, and the divine art, in its attempt to keep
pace with the drama, is reduced often to the unintelligible, in itself
AN UNLEARNED LESSON FROM WAGNER 227
uninteresting level of melodramatic accompaniment. Thus is th^ effi-
ciency of each factor in the combination minimized.
There is no need of this. It is the unnecessary clash of the familiar
and the fanciful that jars. Give the observer beings who sing instead of
talk, endow them with recognizable human characteristics, thus to
forge the links whereby the sympathy of the observer is chained, and let
them do whatever the plot of the drama demands; so long as they are
admittedly creatures of fancy, and not next-door neighbors, or types
from contemporaneous literature, intelligence is not offended, and the
surrender of the observer to the posit of the authors of the work is will-
ing and complete. By this means the opera-maker may attain true
unity of the arts, and approach more nearly the ideal atmosphere of
music, which should be as far dissociated as possible from the expression
of ordinary thoughts in familiar words.
Music, in its highest potentiality, has nought to do with words. It
is not a vehicle for ideas, using the word in its common meaning.
Musical ideas there are, but they are expressible only through modulated
sounds, and cannot possibly be translated into speech — no, not by the
greatest poet who ever lived or ever will live. It stands apart from the
other arts, unique, untranslatable, indescribable. It is absolute beauty,
sufficient in itself, lamed rather than helped by garrulous man^s at^
tempts to put its emotive value into words. Nevertheless, so flexible is
this art that it can readily be employed to enhance the meaning of words,
and to arouse emotions more deeply than could be done by words un-
aided. Once joined to words, music, as such, loses some portion of its
distinction. We may say that it stoops to conquer; for the majority
of human kind is so imperfect in its appreciation of music that it must
have words (if not in the form of songs, then as exegetical notes upon
its programmes) in connection with it; and it is as if music, realizing
that man must progress for centuries before he can take the art at its
own valuation, condescends to join itself to words in order that, by the
combination, man may gain at least a fraction of the joy that the art is
ever ready to bestow upon its votaries.
This is idealization of music, confessedly, and it appears that, from
the ideal point of view, logically there should be no opera of any kind.
But men and women do sing. From that premise one step may be
taken to the proposition that therefore, opera as an art form is defensible
and desirable. All that I hope to establish by a hasty glance at the ideal
domain of music is that it is right and just to demand of any art that
it shall strive for its highest, and not contentedly stop short of the high-
est that it can attain. And my contention is that contemporary writers
228 THE FORUM
of grand opera consciously stop short of the highest that is within their
reach.
Taking his art with the utmost seriousness, the composer should be
unwilling to associate it with whatever detracts from its highest beauty,
or, if beauty be not always the aim of music, let us say eflBciency, that
ifl, its power to reach the understanding through the emotive sensibility
of man to modulated sounds. Music at its highest being dissociated
from words, it follows that, if it must be associated with them, as in
opera, it should be with the highest possible verbal expression ; not neces-
, sarily that every line should be of the loftiest verse, but that the general
scene, the trend of the action, the very personages, should be as far as
possible removed from the familiar, which is to say, the commonplace.
It follows again that, to attain the greatest eflBciency of the music, the
nature of the action should be imidentified with common experience.
Therefore, again, the stage people should be creatures of the imagina-
tion, and the incentives for their dramatic activity should be sought for
in works of the imagination, in one word, the myth. The mature mind
readily accepts the posit of the fairy tale ; with equal readiness it enters
into sympathy with the legendary beings of mythology; it expects them
to employ a speech different from its own; it regards them in a way
analogous to the poef s use of metaphor, to express in terms of the com-
prehensible those depths of feeling that defy the vocabularies of ordi-
nary men. Build the opera upon the foundation of the imagination, and
the most imaginative of the arts then becomes a factor in a firm structure
that does no violence to the intelligence, that does not totter under the
conflict of the ideal and the real, and that wi^ll find a more or less perma-
nent place in the aflfections and respect of men according to the genius
of the composer.
The attitude of the audience indicates that music is far weightier
than drama in the combination. It never was the silly story of
II Trovatore that brought people to the opera house, but it was the '
glorious melodies of Verdi. English speaking audiences emphatically
proclaim their higher esteem for the music, for they prefer that opera
should be dealt out to them in a foreign tongue, whereby the jarring
inconsistencies are minimized, and the necessary resorts to commonplace
in the action of the drama are glossed over by the unfarailiarity of the
words employed. Even in Italy it is said that the habit of conversing
during the recitatives became fixed. In contemporaneous opera, whence
the recitative has been banished, the composer requires close attention
throughout, but what barren rewards do we not get ! The discriminat-
ing listener is frequently conscious that the composer is industriously
AN UNLEARNED LESSON FROM WAGNER 229
composing, doing his best to make music serve purposes for which it
is unfit, straining to carry our musical interest over such episodes as
demand quick action, filling in intervals between songs or ensembles
with modulated sounds that, musically speaking, mean nothing. Almost
the dry recitative would be better, for that, at least, gave the listener's
fancy a rest. He had not to listen to the recitative, but he must
listen to the modem interludes in order that he may not miss the
beginning of the next bit of real inspiration that the composer has to
ofEer.
Let us confess that there are prosy pages in the Nibelungen trilogy,
that Wagner could not attain to his ideals in that series; but is it sup-
posable that he could have attained and maintained the lofty heights of
Tristan if the personages had been dressed in the latest styles sanctioned
by Broadway, if they had travelled by steamboat, if their discourse
smacked of the boulevard, or the drawing-room ? The question answers
itself. Wagner drew upon visionary traditions for his story, he placed
before us personages far removed from the familiar; thus he could put
such speech upon their lips as necessarily called up the mightiest musical
force that he could muster to meet the occasion; the very unreality of
the personages, the impossibility of the story, with its resort to magic,
these deliberate departures from common experience not only enabled
but inspired him to bring into being the loftiest music which his nature
was capable of conceiving. And the unrealities of the story in nowise
detract from the profoundest human interest that follows its unfolding.
It becomes an allegory, and strikes deeper to the heart and intelligence
of man for the very reason that it is relieved of the embarrassing con-
tradictions arising from the mixture of ordinary human facts with
matters (that is to say, music) that arise from and depend upon the
imagination.
It does not follow from this that Tristan is the greatest possible
opera; it was the greatest of which Wagner was capable. Let a greater
composer arise and, with an equally inspiring book, he will write a
greater than Tristan. But, frankly, it is inferable that Puccini — and
his name is used not from any lack of admiration for his genius, but,
on the contrary, because he is deservedly the best esteemed composer of
opera to-day — ^it is inferable that Puccini would write a far greater
opera than has yet come from his pen if he would once abandon the
banalities of the theatre and seek a text that should compel him to toil
in the realms of the imagination. The dramas to which he sets music
are better, more interesting, more artistic, as dramas unadorned by
music than as operas. The music which he writes for them would be
230 THE FORUM
more satisfactory, more uplifting, more artistic, if it were associated
with personages and events removed from common experience.
It will not do to retort that it is unwise if not impracticable to base
a work designed for public patronage upon matters outside common ex-
perience. As indicated in the foregoing, it is not the drama but the
music that brings the people to the opera house; and, in view of the
dominance of the musical element in the combination, we have the right
to demand that it shall not be robbed of its highest eflBciency by yoking
it to subjects that limit its scope and compel it to imgrateful tasks.
Opera is the most pretentious, most imposing form of musical art. So
much the more, then, should the demand be for the best that can be
made of it; so much the severer condemnation should be visited on
those who deliberately make of it a thing that is beneath their own
highest powers.
These considerations demand another observation with regard to the
book of the opera. It needs a poet, and not a hack, as author. How
many libretti are there that make the slightest pretension to literary
style, form, or finish? Is there one that can stand by itself as poem,
or drama ? There may be a few, and, if so, they were written by Richard
Wagner. I do not undertake here to suggest, much less assert their value
as literature, but they were manifestly the best that the author could do,
and they represented at least his reaching out for the heights. Some
of the most satisfactory operas that the world has known were composed
to versions of the Faust legend, and one explanation of their potency,
aside from the fact that they deal with the myth and posit unreal cir-
cumstances as the basis for action, lies in Goethe's poem, which is of
such form as to be readily adaptable to the requirements of the stage.
Any Faust opera, whatever the merits or deficiencies of its lines, is in
the right atmosphere. When the vast sums expended on opera are con-
sidered, when it is recognized that fashion and wealth are necessary to
its support, and that fashion and wealth meet the emergency willingly
and generously, it is positively mystifying that no effort ever is made to
induce a poet of distinguished gifts to prepare a libretto. The ideal
opera demands of the librettist gifts of imagination and expression com-
mensurate with the gifts of the composer.
I have always decried opera in English because I am a musician, and
I find that the singing of familiar words detracts from the sway of the
music; but I should welcome such an impossible concatenation of cir-
cumstances as should bring about a whole season of opera in English
at the Metropolitan and Manhattan, and wherever else the rival organiza-
tions give performances ; for I am convinced that if once the public had
AN UNLEARNED LESSON FROM WAGNER 231
to hear La Tosca, Cavallerta, Trovatore, Otello, A'ida, and so forth^ in
English, there would arise an insistent demand for libretti worthy of the
mnsiCj and for such a scheme of combining the arts as would lift the
music drama from the commonplace of theatrical realism to the limitless
heights of imaginative poetry.
There is apparently a conspicuous exception to the strictures of the
foregoing in the book of Pilleas and Melisande. Here is an opera
whose story is based on myth, and to the writing of which literary genius
of a high order was directed. I grant at once that this libretto is to be
commended for its general character; and inasmuch as Thais has to do
with personages far removed from the familiar in history, I would grant
that there, too, a -vital principle of operatic construction has been ob-
served. But the very mention of these exceptions, which, as usual, prove
the rule, suggests another point in the making of the libretto that deserves
attention, although it is only by inference in line with Wagner's teach-
ings. It was a fine thing for Debussy to take Maeterlinck's drama as a
libretto; and whether Maeterlinck did or did not have a musical setting
for Pelleas in mind when he wrote, does not matter, if it prove that
he made a suitable text. That his text is suitable to the decorative music
of Debussy may be admitted, but the opera-goer may reasonably demand,
first, that the book be so constructed that the personages on the stage
shall be permitted, if not required, to sing in the portrayal of their re-
spective rdles; and second, that the movement of the drama shall not
be so swift as wholly to bar the employment of well-defined melody by
either the vocal or instrumental forces. In other words, resort to the
myth as a basis for the libretto necessitates a special treatment in the
working out of the drama. It will not do to apply to the myth the
theatrical methods of the modem play. Wagner stormed against the
atia of his time, and with such reason that there is no need here to
enter into his argument; the reform instituted by him in the treatment
of the aria is more blessed than the banishment of the recitativo secco;
but Wagner did not neglect the possibilities of song, or condemn his
singers to mere declamation. Before Wagner was well understood, it
was often said that his operas could not be sung; but we know better
now. We know that the best results in performance of any of his works
are attained by proper use of the singing voice. He did make unaccus-
tomed demands on the voice, but they were not abnormal demands ; and
he was keenly alive to the potentiality of pure singing. In every one
of his operas there are long solo passages that give opportunity not only
for sustained singing, but for the orderly development of his themes in
the band. These two eminently desirable results would have been im-
232 THE FOBUM
practicable if his libretti had been constructed for the swift movement
of the spoken play. Compare his severest creations with the works of
Strauss^ who so far ignores singing as a factor in operatic representation
that he frankly declares that it does not matter whether or not the per-
formers sing the notes penned in the score. To Strauss the singers are
manifestly a necessary evil^ and one is tempted to presume that he
writes as he does in the hope of killing them off one by one so that
eventually his works may be performed by a band of a thousand instru-
ments and a dozen bellowing megaphones concealed in fancifully dressed
and undressed manikins. Strauss deliberately chooses personages upon
whose lips song seems to be a profanation, and he accepts for their utter-
ance thoughts and emotions that are of pathological rather than artistic
interest. So Strauss may well be left to wallow in his mire, and as for
Debussy, whose gentler nature it seems a pity to mention in the same
breath, it may be said that the disconnected, highly colored sounds that
he writes as an accompaniment to Maeterlinck's drama are pleasing to
himself. He appears to have a congenital aversion to well-defined
melody, and his work, therefore, the best he can do, may be allowed its
little day before oblivion overtakes it, there being nothing in its music
distinctive enough for the memory to grip.
It must not be overlooked that Wagner's elevation of the orchestra
from the position of an accompanying force to that of an essential factor
in the narration of the story, calls for such a construction of the text as
will enable the band to perform its new and higher function effectively.
Thematic development, whether after the manner of the standard sym-
phonists, or in the modem psychological way, requires time and freedom
from interruption. A libretto designed in the style of the spoken play is,
to a musician, a succession of interruptions, and the musical appetite
cannot be satisfied with music constructed upon it. Again it is a clash
of imagination and realism that offends; again it is a reduction of
musical art to a lower degree of efficiency than is desirable or necessary.
Formal song may be abolished from the opera, but the dialogue should
be of such a nature that the people on the stage may sing at least a part
of the time, and the orchestra proceed with orderly development of its
melodic material all the time, save when climaxes justify the apparently
disconnected, melodramatic method of composition. Thus only can
opera become what it is not to-day, a distinctive art with a value all its
own. To-day it is an inartistic mixture, music subordinated to drama
as in the old days drama was subordinated to q^usic. A proper selection
of subject coupled with a proper construction of text should be pro-
ductive, in the hands of talented poets aud composers, of music-drama
AN UNLEARNED LESSON FROM WAGNER 233
that should be wholly satisfactory to the musical listener; and when he
is satisfied there is no need to consider anybody else, for he who cannot
unbend to the demands of the myth on his imagination, and who, there-
fore, cannot adjust his mental attitude to the fanciful nature of operatic
scene and story, should seek his entertainment in the theatre where the
spoken play is given. Frederick B, Burton.
TO THE TAWNY THBUSH
BY MAX EASTMAN
Pine spirit !
Breath and voice of a wild glade I
In the wild forest near it,
In the cool hemlock or the leafy limb,
Whereunder
Thou didst run and wander
Thro' the sun and shade,
An elvish echo and a shadow dim,
There in the twilight thou dost lift thy song,
And give the stilly woods a silver tongue.
Out of what liquid is thy laughter made?
A sister of the water thou dost seem.
The quivering cataract thou singest near.
Whose glistening stream.
Unto the listening ear.
Thou dost outrun with thy cascade
Of music beautiful and swift and clear —
A joy unto the mournful forest given I
As when afar
A travelling star
Across our midnight races,
A moving gleam that' swiftly ceases.
Lost in the blue black abyss of heaven,
So doth thy light and silver singing
Start and thrill
The silence round thy piney hill.
Unto the sober hour a jewel bringing —
A mystery — a strain of rhythm fleeing —
A vagrant echo winging
Back to the unuttered theme of being !
Max Eastman.
WRITING AS A FINE ART
BY QKORGE PHILIP KHAPP
In precept and in practice, Mr. Pater has typically illustrated the
theory of writing as a fine art. All disinterested lovers of books, he
says at one place, will always look to literature, '^as to all other fine
art, for a refuge, a sort of cloistral refuge, from a certain vulgarity in
the actual world.^* Fine art, he continues, has for such disinterested lovers
"something of the uses of a religious 'retreat,' '* and it is for a "select
few," for "those men of a finer thread who have formed and maintained
the literary ideal,'' that literature at its best exists.
A "disinterested" lover of literature, however, is hard to conceive.
Only he can be disinterested who looks upon literature with the scientist's
spirit, as something to be examined and analyzed, or as the objectifying
classicist does, as an activity which has life and being independent of the
persons through whom its activity is manifested, and which has value
independent of its effect upon its human recipients. It is mere pride
of intellect which would make fine art in writing a religious retreat for
the select world- wearied few, a pride arising from the artist's satisfaction
and exultation in what he conceives to be peculiar to himself and conse-
quently higher and better than that which can be shared with others.
As to the "certain vulgarity in the actual world," of which Mr. Pater
speaks, it is diflicult to know what to say. We have not here to do with
matters of reason, of common-sense, but with matters of feeling, of tem-
perament. In the eyes of one of Mr. Pater's way of thinking, the mere
denial of the vulgarity of the actual world carries no weight. The denial
invalidates itself. In common charity, however, the alien must be al-
lowed to express his belief. That a tree or a flower, growing and blowing
in its natural setting, or a man or a woman with all the thousand and
one accompaniments of life that an artist can never hope to represent,
should be less admirable than the picture of a tree or flower or of a man
or a woman, seems hard to understand. Remoter from the actual world
the picture may be, but is there any essential reason why remoteness from
actuality should result in a quality of refinement which the actual itself
lacks? We may grant that the appeal of the picture is different from the
appeal of the living fact, we may assume that its interest is less intimate
and less profound, and less generally moving of the whole complex of the
human soul; but that it is for these reasons higher, or better, or more
comforting to the spirit, does not follow. Is it not indeed a weakness to
flee from the actualities of the real world and to seek a "cloistral refuge"
WHITING AS A FINE ART 235
in our poor limited sentimental transcriptions of the actual world ? Mar-
vellous the works of the painter's brush and of the writer's pen are when
they are viewed from the side of human inadequacy and ineffectiveness,
but they sink into almost contemptible insignificance when we measure
them against the exhaustless and effortless richness of life itself.
A sequence, almost a necessary sequence, of this exaggerated view of
the value of art, and the corresponding depreciation of the value of the
actual world, is the belief in a kind of mystical sympathy between the
thought and its expression. This is the old belief in an absolute standard
of excellence beyond that of human experience, and Mr. Pater has in-
cluded this doctrine likewise in his literary creed. The well-known
chapter on Euphuism in Marius the Epicurean expresses this ideal. Mr.
Pater here uses the term Euphuism in its strictly etymological sense, not
in the commonly accepted sense as designating certain extravagant char-
acteristics of Elizabethan style, centering about Lyly and his contempo-
raries. These extravagances he regards merely as the accidents, so to
speak, of Euphuism, the ^'fopperies and mannerisms'^ on the surface
"symptomatic of that deeper yearning of human nature toward ideal per-
fection, which is a continuous force in it." And this is the essence
of Euphuism, a deep regard for expression, apart from thought, a quest
for an ideal perfection of form, absolutely and inalterably right in the
nature of things. At another place he quotes sympathetically from a com-
mentator on Flaubert, the latter's belief "in some mysterious harmony
of expression," of his certainty that "there exists but one way of express-
ing one thing, one word to call it by, one adjective to qualify, one verb
to animate it." And Mr. Pater adds that the whole problem of style lies
there, in the finding of "the unique word, phrase, sentence, paragraph,
essay or story."
As a practical preventive of loose and careless writing this doc-
trine is undoubtedly of great service, especially to beginners, but as a
defensible philosophical statement, it has little foundation to rest
upon. The belief in a unique word for each and every human thought,
implies an objective counterpart to human thought in language. But how
has the language come into existence? It is merely the accumulated
total of the voluntary linguistic acts of all the past generations which
have used the language. Now the race has lived so long, has passed
through the experiences conmion to humanity so frequently, that it has
in most instances fashioned, even consecrated, we might almost say, cer-
tain words for their appropriate uses. To detach violently these words
from their uses is of course a crime against all the sacred customs of the
speech. But we cannot for a moment suppose that past experience has
236 '^^^^ FORUM
exhausted all the possibilitieB of human experience, and if new experiences
arise, how can there be already existent in language the unique word or
phrase which is to give them expression? Flauberf s theory, in short, does
not take account of the fact that language is a human invention, is indeed
a piece of practical, human machinery, and like all human inventions, it
has its imperfections and inadequacies. Logicians are fond of discussing
how far language conditions thought That it does so to some extent can-
not be questioned, and the literary artist in seeking his final and unique
word is often compelled^ unconsciously perhaps to himself, to adapt his
thought to the exigencies of the language. When he has brought his
thought to its full expression, he may persuade himself that it could not
have been expressed otherwise by a syllable or a comma, but this is a
flattering conviction, an emotional, subjective synthesis of his thought
and his expression, which may not appeal to others. Even the crudest
literaiy artist, as observation proves, may be persuaded of the ultimate
perfection of his art. If he has no other standard of propriety in ex-
pression than his subjective certainty, if his only test is that he ''feels'^ his
expression to have hit the unique word or phrase, the likelihood that his
expression will impress others as it does himself is dependent entirely
upon the extent of the past experience of the race and the language which
he has assimilated and made his own.
At the other extreme from the exaggerated idealism of form and
art in writing, lies the question whether modem English style is not
tending toward an extreme and narrow utilitarianism. In the broadly
conceived sense of that term, perhaps style can never become too utili-
tarian. If we understand the purpose of language to be the expression
of the whole of human life, then tiie justification of language can only
be its use in the realization of this purpose. Aside from this use it has
no significance and no value. But the whole of human life is an ample
field for the activities of language, and such a generous utilitarian con-
ception of style or language needs no defence. Indications are not lack-
ing, however, of a tendency toward a much narrower interpretation of the
purpose and meaning of literary expression. This is called a practical
age, and the description — or charge — ^is in many ways justified. That
which is not immediately and obviously efficient, is put on the defensive.
We are inclined to measure eveiything by an economic standard, not
necessarily a money-standard, but by some avowed and explicit measure
of immediate efficiency. The instinctive test of likes and dislikes, the
cultivation of the pleasant merely because it pleases, of the beautiful
because it is beautiftd, are held to be unsafe rules of conduct, and un-
worthy an age which knows its own mind and what is best for it.
WRITING AS A FINE ART £37
Literature takes on, nowadays, the reportorial tone to an extent never
before equalled in its history. The newspapers themselves, one of the
most important literary phenomena of our age^ are of course the greatest
purveyors of fact and commentators on fact. In the gradual extension
of the liberal spirit in letters, they have become the mouthpiece of the
great popular party whose interests as yet rarely extend beyond the con-
crete facts of their immediate experience. But other and professedly
higher forms of literature as well, the drama, the novel, the essay, con-
cern themselves mainly with newspaper matters, with problems and
policies which differ from those discussed in the daily press only in that
the treatment of them is a little more analytic and remote, and that dates,
places and real names are not supplied. The few weak efforts made to
escape from the tyranny of the newspaper report, as for example in the
artificial historical romance or tale of adventure, or in the melodramatic
play, only emphasize the bondage under which we labor. The appealing
subjects to-day are men and women in the immediate relations and com-
plications of daily life.
In all this there is nothing that in itself need be seriously deplored.
Literature should serve as a medium of record and of comment on life,
and we may rejoice to see the contact between the experiences of life and
their expression as general and as intimate as it is. At the same time,
the practical interest of the content of literature to-day tends to react
upon literary expression in a way not altogether to be commended. Im-
portant as the qualities of efficient, businesslike directness are, they should
not be allowed to dominate the whole of English expression. There are
moods in which sincerity to the mood lies not in a spare efficiency, but in
a more diffused, less obvious and less direct method of attack. Our
reportorial English, having overcome the crude vices of bombast and
turgidity, tends to become meagre in outline, to acquire the nervous thin-
ness of the highly trained athlete or race-horse. But style should not
always be as one stripped for the race, and in writing as elsewhere, the
quickest way there is often the longest way around.
A typical defence of the neat athletic style is that made by Herbert
Spencer in his essay The Philosophy of Style. The governing idea of
Mr. Spencer^s philosophy is economy. In the broad significance of that
term, as with utilitarianism, economy is a sufficient principle to cover the
whole ground. The best expression is undoubtedly that which attains
the end of the expression most certainly, most swiftly and with the least
necessary effort Anything which diverts attention from the result to be
attained is bad because it necessarily subtracts by so much from the
amoimt of energy bestowed upon the real point at issue. But having
238 THE FORUM
established this principle of economy, Mr. Spencer makes the mistake of
supposing that it will be more forcible if he limits its significance. The
best English style, he declares, is that which is simple, straightforward,
direct. The best vocabulary is the Saxon vocabulary, because its words are
short, therefore produce their effect immediately, and are familiar through
long use, and therefore are appreciated without effort. Concrete terms are
better than abstract because the mental accompaniment of concrete ex-
pression is likely to be more definite and solid than of abstract express-
sion. Consequently, says Mr. Spencer, do not write in general and abstract
terms, but in concrete and specific terms.
The obvious objection to be made to Mr. Spencer's interpretation of
his principle of economy, an interpretation which he himself partially cor-
rects in later passages of his essay, is that economy is not always served
by blunt and concrete expression. Mr. Spencer, in his own writings, has
shown that the generalized Latin vocabulary is not only permissible, but
at times is absolutely essential for a just statement of the ideas which
he wished to express. If English were restricted to the native vocabtdary
— granting for a moment the possibility of the impossible — ^it would mean
a return to the meagre, naive scale of expression which characterized the
literature of the pre-Renaissance period, it would mean the renunciation
of all the variety in phrasing, the melody and amplitude of cadence won
for the language by the century of endeavor from Caxton to Shakespeare.
It would mean, in short, the reversal of those very qualities by virtue of
which modem English siyle is what it is. The cultivation of the native,
or so-called Saxon vocabulary, though it may serve as a corrective of the
extravagant and high-fiown diction often employed by untrained writers,
has in itself no virtue, indeed is vicious if it leads to a neglect of the varied
possibilities of English expression. No other test of diction or manner
of phrasing can be f oimd except truth to the thought and mood which
inspires the expression. If the thought is simple and obvious and con-
crete, then the expression must be so; but a thought or a mood which is
not simple or obvious or concrete, can be forced into the mould of the
simple style only at the expense of truth and propriety of expression. The
words elegant and elegance have grown somewhat old-fashioned, perhaps
have been worn away by too constant use in a period when they were
applied to anything commendable from a poem to a bird-cage. But the
quality of elegance in style, of the nice choice of phrasing to distinguish
a nicely distinguished mood, is one that the writer of English cannot
afford to lose in a blind worship of a narrow and practical economy. If
he does so, he simply errs at the other extreme from the advocate of art
for art's sake in writing.
WRITING AS A FINE ART 239
The question of the right proportion between art and nature in Eng-
lish style fairly raises what is after all the great^ the fundamental ques-
tion of English style — ^the question of the relation of the literary and
written speech to the natural spoken language. Is literary English^ or
rather should literary English strive to be, something diflEerent from
spoken English? That they are in fact diflEerent in some respects is
inherent in the nature of the two. One is the breath of a moment, it is
expression by means of lingual gesture forming soimd; it is addressed
only to the ear and it is always accompanied by helps to intelligibility in
that we have the actual physical prozimation of the individuals between
whom the communication passes. In written or literary expression, how-
ever, the movements of the vocal organs are exchanged for a motion of the
fingers and hands; it has to express itself in a system of permanent,
visible symbols. The persons who are concerned in the communication are
often himdreds of miles, hundreds of years, apart. There is no way of
qualifying a statement by a smile or of enforcing it by the gleam of the
eye. The written word stands not for what it is, but for what the reader
can make out of it. The prime question is, therefore, whether this differ- '
ence in the method of expression entails a necessary and essential diflEer-
ence in the character of the expression. With the inexperienced writer we
know that it does. When the farm hand lays down his prong and takes
his pen in hand to write a few lines, he feels that he is ^tering on a
strange and new activity which demands imusual and violent efEort. He
may be most eloquent in addressing his horses, but a few simple
ideas to be expressed on paper throw him into an agony of imcertainty
and terror. What the ploughman suflEers, every writer suflEers in
his degree. We all write at some remove from our own experience, we
write with awkward and crippling stilts at the ends of our fingers.
Not only to the literary novice is the act of writing unusual; with most
of us it has never been reduced to imconscious habit, as spoken lan-
guage has, and so it is hedged about by all sorts of hampering
restraints.
These restraints, however, are adventitious, and as skill increases
gradually disappear. In the end the practiced writer expresses himself as
freely and as rapidly in writing as in speaking — sometimes, indeed, more
freely and rapidly. But the mere mechanical inconveniences of literary
expression being thus overcome, does there still remain an essential diflEer-
ence between spoken and literary style? An unprejudiced comparison of
the two will show that there is no such essential diflEerence, tiiat, to be
'^terary,'^ expression need not be in response to a diflEerent set of mental
activities from those which result in spoken expression, and furthermore,
240 ^^^^^ FOBUM
that the consdoiis ''literaTy'^ intention usually results in qualities of style
which defeat the purpose of the intention.
The range of spoken expression should first be considered. All spoken
English is not necessarily colloquial English. The average circumstances
of daily life do not^ to be sure, require anything other than the relaxed
forms of expression which we call colloquial; these forms are intelligible,
and the general tone of daily conversation, its potential energy, does not
encourage greater effort than is required for intelligibility. But spoken
speech is not all on one plane of conversational utterance. As soon as a
new element enters into colloquial communication, as soon as there is a
slight increase of passion, of formality, of earnestness, as soon as the
audience is increased in size and diversity, the forms of the language
immediately change; the speaker immediately chooses different words,
different phrases, different sentence cadences, and all these changes are in
the direction of what we call literary expression. It has often been ob-
served that people in the height of passion or under the stress of great
suffering express themselves with a power and poetic quality altogether
lacking in their normal speech. These unexpected powers are an ex-
emplification of the fact that literature and the literary quality exist in
essence before there is any thought of putting pen to paper. Indeed it
is only necessary to imagine the state of affairs before the art of writing
existed to realize that writing is an external and artificial accompaniment
of literary expression. Intelligent lovers of literature may be foimd who
assert that dl the highest and best forms of literature, for example,
the poetry of Homer, were composed before it was possible to record
them in written symbols. And, psychologists of to-day tell us that nine
out of every ten writers 'Tiear'* their writing before they put it down on
paper — ^they hear by means of that inner ear which has come to be our
second nature through the tens of thousands of generations during which
we have grown accustomed to the spoken word.
The attempt, therefore, to find in literature a specific, artistic quality
distinguishing it from all other language expression is artificial and un-
true to the facts. Literature is not a superior form of expression, it
differs from oral expression only in the mechanical means by which it is
recorded. The literary quality may be distinguished from the colloquial
quality, but colloquialism is only one of the many forms of spoken ex-
pression. Eightly viewed, this conception of the nature of literary
expression should not be regarded as lowering the dignity of literature and
the literary style. It is no defect in literature that it is an echo, a
reflection of actual life; rather it is its highest commendation. Literary
expression can become mean and sordid only when the general tone of
WRITING AS A FINE ART 241
life is mean and sordid^ and when that stage of affairs is reached no
amount of conscious literary artifice will save literature from its cer-
tain fate. Oeorge Philip Krapp.
THE FLIGHT
BY CLINTON 800LLARD
Hakk — ^how the bugles blow,
Airy bugles that ring I
Full of wonder, over and under
All other tides of sound I
Oho 1 but we must go.
We of the wandering wing !
The call comes drifting, dying and lifting.
And we are northward bound !
Drooping plumes of the palm,
Scent of the jasmine flower.
Lull of the dreaming waves on the gleaming
Heach of the level sands;
Languorous nights of calm, —
How we have longed for the hour
When we should cry to them gladly good-bye to them.
Seeking the northern lands !
Too much swaying at ease 1
Cloying of every sense !
Naught but a vision ever elysian, —
Glamour of blue and gold I
Never a tang in the breeze
Drowsing with indolence ;
Never the glory of mountains hoary.
White with the touch of cold I
But now — away ! away !
The summoning bugles have blown;
The spell is broken ; we know the token.
We of the wandering wing !
On through the night and day.
Over long leagues and lone.
Bearing, bearing, where'er we're faring
The word and the wonder — Spring !
Clinton Scollard.
AKAMINTA*
BY J. G. 8KAITU
CHAPTER XIV
UKGENTLEMANLIKE BEHATIOB OF JIM LASCELLES
Jim Lascblles continued his labors. He arrived at Hill Street each
morning at ten, and worked with diligence until two p.m. Urged by the
forces within him and sustained by the injudicious counsel of his mother,
he devoted his powers to the yellow hair, in spite of the fact that by the
terms of his commission it was his duty to copy the auburn.
About three days after the dance he was interrupted one morning
by Lord Andover. Jim was feeling rather depressed. For one thing, his
conscience smote him. He had deliberately risked the loss of a sum of
money which he could not afford to lose, and further it was most likely
that he was about to offer an affront to his only patron. The more work
he put into the picture the more marked became the difference between
it and the Gainsborough. Again, and this perhaps was an equally solid
reason for his depression, this morning the Ooose Girl had forsaken him.
She had gone for a ride in the ])ark with her duke.
Doubtless Andover was sharing Jim's depression. At least when he
entered the drawing-room to inspect the labors of his prot^g^, a counte-
nance which as a general rule made a point of exhibiting a scrupulous
amiability was clouded over.
Andover's scrutiny of Jim's labors was long and particular.
"I invite you to be frank with me, Lascelles," said he. "Is this a copy
of the Dorset or is it a portrait of a living person?"
By nature Jim was a simple and ingenuous fellow. But really his
present predicament was so awkward that he did not know what reply
to make.
"Some of it is Gainsborough," said Jim lamely, "and some of it, I
am afraid, is nature."
"I am sorry to say, my dear Lascelles," said Andover judicially, "that
I cannot accept that as an adequate answer to a straightforward question."
"No, it is not a very good answer," Jim agreed.
Suddenly his jaw dropped and he burst into a queer laugh.
"The fact is. Lord Andover," said Jim, "I am in a hole."
Andover regarded Jim in a highly critical manner.
'TTes, Lascelles," said he slowly, *T think you are."
^Copyright, 1906, hg Mofai, Yard and Compatiy.
ARAMINTA 243
''A hole/' Jim repeated with additional emphasis, as if he desired to
gain confidence from a frank statement of his trouble.
Jim's odd face seemed to appeal for a little sympathy, but not a sug-
gestion of it was forthcoming.
''What can a fellow do?'' said Jim desperately. "She will come and
sit here on that sofa in a better light than the duchess. The sun of the
morning will shine upon her; and when Nature comes to handle pink
and white and blue and yellow she has a greater magic than ever Gains-
borough had."
Andover shook his head with magisterial solemnity.
"Lascelles," said he, "you have a very weak case. And I feel bound to
say that the manner in which you present it does not in my opinion make
it stronger."
"I expect not," said Jim ruefully. "But dash it all, what is a fellow
to do if she will come and sit on that sofa and pose like Ronmey's
Emma!"
"His duty is absolutely clear to my mind," said Andover, "and I think
it is simple. He should order the intruder out of the room."
"Oh, yes, I know," said Jim, "that is what a really strong chap would
do." Jim gave a groan. "I know that is what a Velasquez or a Rem-
brandt would have done. And he would have cursed her like fury for
sitting there at all."
"Yes, I think so," said Andover suavely. "Rembrandt especially. In "
my opinion Rembrandt would have shaken his fist at her."
"That is the worst of being a mediocrity," said Jim gloomily. "It
takes a chap with enormous character to do these things."
"I am afraid, Lascelles," said Andover, "the plea of mediocrity will
do nothing for you. If anything it weakens your case. Personally, if
I were advising you, I should say either put in a plea of consummate
genius or do not put in a plea at all."
"I am not such a fool as to believe that I'm a genius," said Jim with
excellent honesty.
"I am not such a fool as to believe you are either," said Andover
with a frankness that was equally excellent. "And, therefore, examining
you conduct with all the leniency the circumstances will permit, I am
imable to find the least excuse for it. I fear my old friend Lady
Crewkeme is much annoyed — ^forgive my plainness, Lascelles, but I feel
it to be necessary — ^by your presumption in copying her niece instead of
her Oainsborough; and I as an old friend of the house feel bound to
share her disapproval."
"Rub it in," said Jim.
244 THE FORUM
He stuck his hands in his pockets and began to whistle softly with an
air of supreme discomfiture.
'TiTes, Lascdles, I intend to do so," said Andover. "In fact I find it
difiicult to say all that I should like to do upon the subject, without
actually saymg more than one who was at school with your father would
feel it desirable to say to a young man who has his own way to make in
the world."
"Say just as much as you like," said Jim. "I know I have made an
ass of myself. And, of course, I haven^t a leg to stand on really. And
I expect the old cat will have me on the carpet too."
Andover dropped his eyeglass with an air of dignified agitation.
"I beg your pardon, Lascelles," said he. "To whom do you refer?"
"To that damned old woman," said Jim Lascelles, with an unabashed
air.
"Can it be possible," said Andover, "that you refer to Caroline Crew-
kerne, my oldest friend?"
"I mean the aunt of Nature's immortal work," said Jim coolly. "I
really can't help it ; I feel that I must curse somebody this morning. And
as she is bound to curse me, I don't see why I shouldn't curse her."
'TTour habit of explanation, Lascelles, is decidedly unfortunate."
"Well, tell me the worst," said Jim ruefully. "I suppose you with-
draw your offer; and I am to be bundled out neck and crop with my can-
vas and forbidden to come here again."
"I certainly withdraw my ofifer," said Andover. "In regard to pro-
hibition of the house, that of course rests entirely with my old friend,
of whom you have spoken in a singularly disrespectful and, shall I say,
ungentlemanlike manner."
"I couldn't help it," said Jim humbly. ^TLt would slip out. But, of
course, I'm in the wrong altogether."
"You are undoubtedly. To my mind you are more in the wrong than
I could have believed it possible for any man of your age, upbringing and
antecedents to be."
'If a confounded girl," said Jim, "will come in to ask you what
your opinion is of her hat and her frock, and whether you have ever
tasted cream buns and pink ices, and whether you think MuflBn's mauve
was as nice as her lilac is ^"
"Ify dear Lascelles," interrupted Andover, "your habit of explanation ^
is really most unfortunate."
*^ell, kick me out and my canvas too," said Jim desperately, "and
have done with it."
Jim Lascelles, like the rash and hasty fellow that he was, feeling
ARAMIKTA 245
himself to be irretrievably disgraced and that he had forfeited forever
the respect and good will of his only patron^ proceeded to pack up his
brushes and his pigments.
*The former part of your suggestion, Lascdles/* said Andover, "is
much the simpler matter of the two. But in the matter of the half
finished canvas I foresee difiiculty/^
'TTou have repudiated it, haven't you?" said Jim rather fiercely.
'•'Unquestionably as a copy of the Dorset," said Andover. '^ut all the
same I do not think it can be permitted to leave this house."
''Why not?" said Jim.
"It is an unauthorized portrait," said Andover, "of my ward, Miss
Perry, who at present is in statu pupUlari/'
"Yes," said Jim dubiously. "I suppose it is. All the same it is rather
hard on a fellow. I have put a lot of work into that picture."
"I can see you have, Lascelles."
"And of course," said Jim injudiciously, "I should like to put a lot
more work into it. It is such a fine subject."
"The subject is much too fine, Lascelles, if I may venture an opinion,
my advice to you is bum the canvas and forget that it ever existed."
No pity was taken on Jim's blank consternation.
"Bum it 1" cried Jim, aghast.
"I am afraid if you don't, my dear Lascelles, Lady Grewkeme will."
"But she has no right — " said Jim fiercely.
"I am afraid, my dear fellow, her right is not to be contested. To my
mind this half finished canvas is far more her property than it is yours."
"Well," said Jim apprehensively, "I shall remove it at once to my
studio."
Andover had dropped his little bombshell. The gyrations of his vic-
tim, whom he had fully alarmed, seemed to afford him a great deal of
pleasure.
"Let us take it a little easier, my dear fellow," said he. "I agree with
you that it would be a great pity to destroy such an extremely promising
work of art. Let us seek for an alternative."
"The only alternative I can see," said Jim, "is that I should remove
it at once."
"In its half finished state? That would be a pity."
"Well, I don't mean it to be burnt if I can help it," said Jim.
During the pause which followed Jim looked highly perplexed, a
little disconcerted and also somewhat belligerent.
"I have a suggestion to make to you, Lascelles," said his patron. "In
the circumstances I think it is quite the most you can hope for."
2^Q THE FORUM
''1 shall be happy to hear it/' said Jim^ with a rueful smile.
''Fir«t>'' said Andover, ''it seems to me that the best thing I can do
is to get the permission of Lady Crewkeme for you to finish the portrait
of her niece. Now, I warn you it may not be easy. As I think you have
ivnjectuied, she is a difficult member of a most difficult sex. But I am
only prepared to do this upon one definite understanding.''
"What is it ?*' asked Jim, in a tone that was not very hopef uL
"The understanding must be this, Lascelles," said Andover, with a
very businesslike air. "As you have treated me so abominably — I r^et
exceedingly that candour compels me to use the term — ^if I obtain per-
mission for you to complete your portrait of Miss Perry, I shall insist
upon being allowed to purchase it upon my own terms."
"Yes," said Jim, "that is only fair."
It seemed to him that things were taking a much more favorable
course than he could have hoped for.
"If I can get permission for you, Lascelles," said Andover, "to com-
plete that picture, and you finish it as well as you have begun it, it will be
a pleasure to hang it at Andover House."
Jim Lascelles was touched by the kindness of his patron.
"I didn't quite see my way," said he, with admirable simplicity, "to
offer you an apology for my rotten behavior, because you know you did
rub it in, but I am going to now. And I hope youll accept it because
you've been so kind to me — ^much kinder to me than you ought to have
been really."
"Yes, Lascelles," said Andover impartially, "I am inclined to take
that view myself. But your father was good to me at school; and you
are young and you have talent and you have a great subject to work upon,
and I can't help feeling that it would be a pity if you lost the opportunity
which in a sense you have already had the wit to create. Mind, Lascelles,
I don't excuse you in the least. I palliate nothing; take your conduct all
round, it has been abominable; but in my humble judgment, had it been
more correct than it has been, I personally should not take such a hopeful
view of your future. For you have conformed to my fundamental belief
that all the men who are worth anything must begin by breaking the
rules. Although always remember, my dear Lascelles, when you come to
breaking the rules, that it is very easy to get expelled the school. And
should tiiat happen — ^well, of course, you are done for unless you are able
to found a school of your own."
Jim Lascelles forbore to smile at this piece of didacticism. He was
very full of gratitude. Tlie old fogey had behaved so much more nicely
than he need have done.
ARAMINTA 247
*^f only I had genius," said Jim, "I would give up my days to the
fashioning of the most absolute masterpiece that ever adorned Andover
House."
"You remember Carlyle's definition?" said the owner thereof.
"Carlyle was an old fool," said Jim.
^That was always my opinion," said Andover. "And I once had the
privilege of telling him so, and what is more, the noisy fellow admitted it.
Doubtless what he meant to express by his definition was the fact that
Genius is perfect submission to the Idea."
'^ell, here goes for perfect submission to the Idea," said Jim Las-
celles.
He took up his brush and his palette and gave a very deft touch to
the vestments of Miss Perry.
"Do you like my new riding habit?" said a perfectly ludicrous drawl
coming in through the door.
Jim Lascelles made a gesture of despair. He kept his back turned
upon the new riding habit resolutely.
"Dear me," said Andover, "Artemis."
"Isn't it silly?" said Miss Perry. "They don't like you to jump the
railings in Botten Bow."
'TiVTiat is the source of your information?" Andover inquired.
"Gobo says so," said Miss Perry.
"Put not your faith in that man, my dear Miss (roose," said Andover
mellifluously. *1t is only because he is afraid of taking a toss."
"But they have got p-p-policemen," said Miss Perry impres-
sively.
There is no doubt that in her new riding habit Miss Perry looked
perfectly distracting. Andover thought so. As for Jim Lascelles, he
waved her away from him with great energy.
"That is the sort of thing," said he with an appeal for sympathy and
protection.
"Miss Goose," said Andover, 'Ttfr. Lascelles has made a serious indict-
ment against you."
"Has he?*^ said Miss Perry, opening very large, very round, and very
blue eyes upon Jim.
"Mr. Lascelles complains," said Andover, with paternal severity, "that
while he is assiduously engaged in copying that famous portrait of your
great-grandmamma, you persist in coming into this room in your
smartest gowns; in sitting in the middle of that sofa; in absorbing the
best light; in posing in a manner that no really sensitive painter can pos-
sibly resist; with the melancholy result that you literally force him to
248 '^^^^^ FORUM
paint you instead of your great-grandmamma^ qnite^ as he assures me^
against his rational judgment and his natural inclination.^'
"Oh, I don't mind at all," said Miss Perry, with charming friendli-
ness. "It made me rather tired at first holding my chin like this, but at
the end of an hour I always get a cream bun."
"At the end of an hour you always get a cream bun ! Do you, in-
deed?"
^TTes," said Miss Perry, "small ones, but they are almost as nice as
the large ones."
"I hope, Lascelles," said Andover, "you have something to offer by
way of extenuation."
'TV'ell, what can a fellow do ?" said Jim desperately. ^'What with the
sun stuck up there, and this pink and white and blue and yellow ar-
rangement ! As for the chin — ^well, if a chin will curve like that it must
take the consequences."
Andover was shocked.
"Say as little as possible, Lascelles, I entreat you," said he. '?our
case is hopeless. But I feel bound to say this. Since we have had this
astounding allegation of xthe cream buns, without probing the matter
to the depths, which I am really afraid to do, I must say your future as a
painter seems more roseate than ever."
"Thank you. Lord Andover," said Jim modestly.
'%ut in r^ard to your future as a human being, as a unit of society,
I prefer to exercise a wise discretion, which will take tiie form of saying
nothing whatever upon the subject."
*Thank you. Lord Andover," said Jim again.
Jim Lascelles then turned his gaze upon Miss Perry. It was of such
singular resolution that it seemed as if he sought to hypnotize that ir-
responsible person to maintain tiie semblance of discretion.
^Tt you will go and put on that new frock," said he in a manner that
Andover was forced to regard as effrontery, 'Ve can get just an hour be-
fore luncheon, and then to-morrow you will start a cream bun
in hand."
The prospect offered seemed sufficiently enticing to Miss Perry.
'Tee," said she, "that wUl be nice."
She left the room with great cheerfulness.
Andover regarded Jim Lascelles with that paternal air which he
was wont to assume rather frequently toward the world in general.
"Lascelles," said he, ^*I shall have to revise my estimate of your at-
tainments. It is becoming increasingly clear to my mind that you may
go far."
ARAMTNTA 249
*'Qillet said, if I applied myself/' said Jim, without immodesty, "I
might be able one day to paint a portrait/'
"GiUef s opinion is valuable,'' said Andover, with rather the air of
one who set a higher value upon his own opinion than he did upon that
of Gillet. He examined Jim's work very critically. 'TTes," he said,
"there are latent possibilities. You have had the wit to find a subject,
and if you continue as you have begun there seems much to be made out
of it"
Jim's face expressed his pleasure. He was a simple fellow enough, but
he had ambitions of a kind.
'^Lascelles/' said his patron, "may I give you a word of advice?"
Jim expressed himself gratified at the prospect of receiving it.
"It is this/' said Andover slowly. 'TTou must get into the habit of
charging more for your pictures."
"I hope I shall be able to/' said Jim. 'TSut times are hard and it is
uphill work for a man without a reputation."
"I appreciate that/' said Andover. "But I heard you spoken of as the
coming man the other night, and I see no reason why you shouldn't con-
firm the prediction."
"If only I had a little more talent," said Jim.
'r[f only you had a little more faith in it, Lascelles. It is the faith
that is so necessary, as every artist tells us."
"I suppose so/' said Jim. ^TTet all the same I wish the fairies had
been a little kinder."
"I am of opinion that they have been suflSciently kind," said Andover,
"to the man who could pose that head and put that hair upon canvas.
But what I wanted particularly to say to you is this. My friend Kendal
intends to ask you to paint a portrait of his daughter Priscilla."
Jim Lascelles was thrilled by this announcement.
"That is awfully good of him," said he, "and awfully good of you.
Lord Andover."
'Terhaps I have the more genuine title to your gratitude," said
Andover amiably, *T)ecause as far as Kendal is concerned he is one of
those undisceming and sluggish fellows who always prefer to take some
one else's opinion rather than form one of their own. I told him you were
the man to paint his daughter Priscilla, and he was only too glad to have
my word for it. And I am by no means sure you are not."
Jim Lascelles was at a loss to know how to express his sense of obliga-
tion, particularly as he could not help feeling that he was not entitled to
receive such kindness.
"I wish now," said Jim, 'T! hadn't behaved so badly/'
250 '^^^ FORUM
^'The worst of any sort of bad behayior/' said Andoyer sententiously,
''is that it carries such a heavy premium. But no matter. The chief
thing is to behave well to my friend Kendal. Paint his daughter Priscilla
to the best of your ability, and be careful to charge him five hundred
guineas/'
Jim was staggered.
"Five hundred guineas !" said he. ''Why, he will never pay it ! He
could get an absolute first rater for that sum"
Andover smiled sagaciously.
"Doubtless he could/' said he; "and if my friend Kendal pays five
hundred guineas he will consider he's got one. When I come to examine
it on the wall of his gloomy and draughty dining-room in Yorkshire, I
shall say, 'Kendal, that picture of Priscilla appears to be an uncommonly
sound piece of work.' And he will say, as proud as you please, 1 should
think it was, my dear fellow. That young chap Lascelles turned out ab-
solutely first rate. He charged five hundred guineas for that picture. I
am telling everybody.' "
Jim Lascelles found it hard to accept his good fortune. Further he
seemed to be rather troubled by it.
"I hope it is quite fair to Lord Kendal," he said, "to charge him five
hundred guineas for a picture I should be only too glad to paint for
fifty."
Andover was amused.
"My dear Lascelles," said he, "simplicity is greatly to be desired in
art, but it is well not to take it into the market-place. There is the man
with whom you are doing business to be considered. If my friend Kendal
paid fifty guineas for the picture of his daughter Priscilla he would
think exactly ten times less of it than if he paid five hundred; and in-
stead of hanging it in his dining-room in the worst possible light he
would hang it in one of the smaller bedrooms in a very much better
one."
Andover's homily was interrupted at this point by the return of
Miss Perry. In her Gainsborough gown, which she had worn at the
fancy ball, and in her "runcible" hat, which by some miracle had been
clapped on at just the right angle, she looked more distracting than any
human creature ought really to do. She seated herself in the middle of
the sofa with great composure, tilted her chin to the light of the morn-
ing, and folded her hands in her lap with almost the air of a professional.
"Out for blood," said Jim approvingly.
"Lascelles," said Andover, "I am almost afraid this means a large
ARAMINTA 251
^TTes/* said Jim, "I am a poor and obscure painter, but this zeal to
serve the arts really merits encouragement**
'Terhaps, Lascelles,** said Andover, "if Buzzards are sincerely inter-
ested in art, as one feels sure they must be, they might be induced to
make a reduction upon the large ones if you contracted for a quantity/*
Jim Lascelles was frankly delighted with the pose and worked very
happily. He was in high spirits. Thanks to Andover*8 generosity he had
got out of his difficulty far more easily than he could have hoped to have
done. His future prospects had also taken a sudden and remarkable turn
for the better. Yet apart from these considerations his subject fired him.
As he worked during this precious hour he felt that his execution had
never had such boldness, freedom and authenticity.
Andover watched his protege with approval. As a critic he was suf-
ficiently accomplished to detect great possibilities in Jim*s method. Here
might be a genuine "trouvaille,** if the young fellow only had thorough-
ness as well as courage.
Miss Perry had not moved her chin once for nearly an hour, so that
she felt her guerdon was as good as earned; Jim LasceUes had yielded for
the same period to a genuine inspiration; and Andover sat at his ease
watching with every outward sign of satisfaction the fair fruits which
were springing from his liberal treatment of the artistic temper, when this
harmony of sitter, painter and patron was gravely imperilled by the en-
trance of a little fat dog. As usual he heralded the approach of an old
woman leaning upon an ebony stick.
No sooner had the old woman entered the blue drawing-room than
she stood dumfounded with amazement. And yet there is reason to be-
lieve that this attitude was in some measure assumed. Jim Lascelles
continued to ply his brush in blissful ignorance of her presence; Miss
Perry for political reasons continued strictly to maintain her pose. An-
dover, however, put up a solemn forefinger. Nevertheless, signs were not
wanting that the mistress of the house was about to disregard his warning.
"Ssssh, Caroline,** said he.
'TVhat, pray, is the meaning of this?*' demanded the old lady.
"This is a most critical stage,** said Andover. "Three minutes more
and I shall invite you to speak with freedom.**
"Tell me,** snorted the old lady. "Why is that girl sitting there in
that manner in the gewgaws of a playactress ?**
"Sssh, Caroline,** said Andover. *T3on't you see?**
The perfect composure of the fair sitter, and the fact that she chose
to remain deaf, dumb and blind to the intruder, seemed to exasperate
that autocrat.
THE FORUM
"Tell me, girl, what is the meaning of it?" she stormed.
She beat the carpet with the ebony walking stick.
'TMEove not the Chin Piece, the young man said,'* Jim whispered.
The filmy, faraway look continued in the eyes of Miss Perry. She
paid heed to none.
Andover held up his forefinger very gravely.
"Sssh, Caroline,*' said he. "One short and brief minute more. The
whole situation is most critical.'*
"Is the creature hypnotized?'* demanded Caroline.
"Yes," said Andover, "she is undoubtedly."
"Who gave permission for her to sit for her portrait?" demanded the
old lady. *T[n those fal-lals, too."
"Niature gave her permission," said Andover, "amiable old dame,/ Na-
ture. She couldn't refuse it."
"I forbid it," said the old lady with all the energy of which she was
capable. 'It is disgraceful. It shall not go on."
Then it was that Miss Perry spoke.
"Large cream bun to-morrow morning, please," said she.
"Is it an hour ?" said Jim Lascelles. 'Dear me 1 how time flies. One
can hardly believe it."
"Girl," said the old lady, 'T demand an explanation."
As Miss Perry seemed to have no explanation to offer, Andover came
to her aid.
"The truth is," said he in honeyed tones, "my distinguished young
friend Lascelles is the victim of a very natural error. My idea was of
course, Caroline, as you are aware, that he should come here to copy
your Gainsborough; but it would appear that he has put another inter-
pretation upon his mandate. And I feel bound to confess that I for one
cannot blame him."
Caroline Crewkeme, however, was not appeased so easily.
"In my opinion," said she, "it is unpardonable that any man should
take it upon himself to paint clandestinely the portrait of my niece.
And in my house too."
Jim held himself very proudly and perhaps a little disdainfully also.
The old woman's tone was certainly offensive.
'TJady Crewkeme," said he, not so humbly as he might have done,
"I will admit that I have done wrong, but I hope my offence is not a
very grave one."
The old lady looked Jim over very scornfully. She was evidently not
quite sure whether such presumption was entitled to a reply at all.
"It depends upon the light in which one chooses to view the sub-
ARAMINTA 253
ject/' said she in a voice which trembled with anger. ^T. have fonned
my own opinion about such behavior. I must ask you to leave this
house immediately and in future it will be closed to you."
Jim was stung. The mildest-mannered fellow in the world would
have been by such an unbridled display of despotism. Andover, who by
long association with the Whigs understood their arbitrary nature^ was
really less shocked by such an uncivil exhibition than he pretended to be.
He took Jim Lascelles by the sleeve, drew him aside and bestowed a
whimsical smile upon him.
''Say nothing, my dear fellow," said he in a sagacious and paternal
manner. "Give her her head and then leave her to me."
Jim Lascelles, however, was furious. He was young and hot-headed;
and adversity had rendered him more sensitive upon the score of his per-
sonal dignity than it is wise for a young fellow to be. Therefore, he was
by no means disposed to leave the adjustment of the matter to his friend.
Not by his demeanor only did he express resentment, but by word and by
deed also.
'1 am sorry. Lady Crewkeme, you have taken this view," said he
not very pacifically. "I shall be quite happy to obey your instructions.
A couple of men will come from Peabody^s this afternoon to fetch the
canvas."
And then with an incredible absence of judgment Jim Lascelles
packed up his tools, and distributing curt bows to everybody, stalked out
of the room and out of the house.
Andover showed genuine consternation. Miss Perry looked ready to
shed tears. Cream buns apart, she was very fond of Jim.
''An incomprehensibly foolish thing to have done," said An-
dover.
"A deplorable exhibition of impudence," said Caroline Crewkeme.
"I have the greatest mind not to give up that canvas. I should be within
my rights if 1 destroyed it."
"I have grave doubts whether you could do it legally," said Andover.
For a man of his vaimted wisdom and experience it was a sadly inju-
dicious thing to have said.
"You think so," said the redoubtable Caroline. "That decides me.
That man must be taught a lesson. Andover, have the goodness to ring
the bell."
Andover showed genuine concern.
"Surely, Caroline," said he, "you cannot mean that you are going
to destroy it."
"That is my intention."
264 THE FORUM
''Oh, but/' said Andover, "it would be nothing short of a crime.
There is no other word for if
"It is going to be done/' said Caroline Crewkeme.
"But the young fellow has put many hours of fine work into that
picture/' said Andover with great seriousness, "and fine thought in it
too. It would be a crime."
"If a man has no manners he must be taught them/' said Caroline
grimly.
"The kettle is invariably the severest judge of the pot," said Andover
in a whimsical aside. "Really, Caroline, you began it," said he.
"The man began it by painting my niece's portrait without obtaining
my permission. Not content with abusing my hospitality he must show
insolence when remonstrated with."
"Well, you know, my dear Caroline/' said Andover, "that hand of
yours is uncommonly heavy. And although no one deplores the young
fellow's conduct for his own sake more deeply than I do, he acted pre-
cisely as his profoundly rash and hot-headed father would have done in
the circumstances."
"I am not in the least interested in such a person or in his father
either/' said Caroline Crewkeme. "But I have made up my mind that
that canvas shall be destroyed."
CHAPTER XV
DIPLOMAOY IS NECESSABY
Andover's gravity was of a kind he seldom displayed.
"Caroline/' said he firmly, "if you behaved in that way no right-
minded person could possibly forgive you. The lad is very poor and
his history is a sad one. He is the son of Lascelles, V.C., as rash yet
generous-hearted a fellow as ever lived. Had it not been for a dishonest
broker the yoimg chap would be a man of wealth and position."
"I am prepared to hear nothing further upon the subject," said Caro-
line Crewkeme. "I have made up my mind. Andover, have the good-
ness to ring the bell."
The affair must have had a tragic termination there and then had
not the God who watches over poor painters — whatever their own private
fnd personal doubts in regard to that Deity, it is only right for laymen
like ourselves to assume that there is one — seen fit to enact a little provi-
dence of His own. At that cracial moment there came to Andover's aid
no less a person than George Betterton. And as if that opportune arrival
ARAMTNTA 255
was not in itself sufficient, Providence took the trouble to play a double
coup. Mr. Marchbanks made the announcement almost immediately
afterward that luncheon was ready.
While Caroline enlarged upon her grievances to George Betterton and
outlined the extreme course she proposed to take as soon as luncheon was
over, Andover scribbled hastily in pencil on the back of a card : "Eemove
picture from No. — Hill Street immediately to the Acacias, Hawthorn
Road, Balham.''
This accomplished, he proceeded to take Mr. Collins into his confi-
dence. He placed the card together with a sovereign in the palm of
that gentleman.
"Go down at once," said he, "to the people at the Bond Street Gal-
leries and give them this card. They are to remove that half finished
picture in the blue drawing-room to that address. By the time luncheon
is over it must be out of the house. Is that clear ?"
'Terfectly clear, my lord," said Mr. Collins, who among his many
virtues had a proper tenderness for the peerage.
"See that this is done, and when questions are asked all you need
know upon the subject is that a couple of men came and took it away.
You understand?"
'Terfectly, my lord," said Mr. Collins.
During luncheon Andover was seen to particular advantage. At any
time it called for very little effort on his part for him to be one of the
most agreeable men in Tx)ndon. To-day he excelled. He retailed some
of the newest stories and a quantity of the freshest gossip ; he was really
genial to George Betterton and encouraged him to enlarge at length upon
the subject of the Militia ; and to his hostess he gave a tip for the Oaks,
for which species of information she had a decided weakness.
It was but seldom among his intimates that George was permitted to
mount his hobby horse. As for Andover he was the last man in the
world as a rule to consent to hold the head of that extraordinary quad-
ruped while George established himself firmly in the saddle. But on this
occasion he performed that operation in the most graceful manner.
"Excellent speech of yours in the House the other evening, my dear
fellow," said he. *! wasn't there myself — Philosophical Society's annual
meeting — ^but you were very carefully reported in the Times. Quite your
best vein, if I may say so. Very shrewd, very searching, sound common
sense. You thought so, Caroline, did you not?"
It seems incredible, but Caroline Crewkerne walked straight into the
trap. With all her ruthlessness and all her knowledge of mundane affairs
she had one besetting weakness. She attached an absurd importance to
256 THE FORUM
any form of politics. It was her Whiggism doubtless. She would en-
courage the most consummate bore, for upon the slightest pretext her
vanity would lead her to believe that her fingers were really in the pie,
and that she had a very considerable hand in the destinies of the coun-
try.
In the heyday of her glory it used to be asserted freely by idle persons
that if the country was not actually ruled from Hill Street, ministers at
least were made and marred there, and that of that quarter governments
went in fear and trembling. And it is by no means improbable that Caro-
line Crewkerne came to believe it. It is surprising what vanity will do
for us.
To-day the smouldering embers of a life-long illusion, if the figure
is permitted, allowed Caroline Crewkerne to establish George Betterton
quite firmly astride his hobby horse. Andover counted the minutes of his
exquisite boredom. George was always heavy. He spoke so slowly and
impressively that he could deliver a platitude in a longer space of time
than any man living, and he could use fewer words in the operation. In-
deed, upon the strength of that gift he had gained a reputation for in-
cisive brevity.
To see Caroline Crewkerne nodding her vain old head and wagging
her vain old ears in an exaggerated attitude of statesmanlike attention
was a positive joy to Andover, particularly as time was so valuable. The
minutes grew tedious in their passing, all the same. The clock chimed
half past two and Miss Perry mentioned the circus.
'Tjet us postpone it until to-morrow, my dear Miss Goose, if you
really don't mind,*' said Andover. **The conversation is so absorbing.
The preserved ginger is highly delectable, too.'*
Miss Perry shared the latter opinion.
'TBenedictine or Maraschino, my lord?" said Mr. Marchbanks.
'TSoth,'' said my lord.
Mr. Marchbanks dissembled his surprise in an extremely well-bred
manner. In his eyes, however, a peer of the realm was in the happy
position of Caesar's wife.
It must not be assumed, however, that Andover indulged in both
these luxuries. His respect for the internal economy forbade that course.
But observing that George Betterton selected Maraschino he contrived
to smuggle unseen the Benedictine to George's side of the table. He then
addressed his mind to slumber.
After a full twenty minutes thus blissfully stolen he awoke with a
little start
'^eg pardon, George," said he. 'Did I understand you to say the
ARAMTNTA 257
Militia had gone to the dooce and the Country must be reconstructed or
that the Country had gone to the dooce and the Militia must be recon-
structed r
'*The Country, Andover/* said Caroline Crewkeme in her most af-
faire manner, "certainly the Country/*
'TVTiat a good head you have, Caroline,** said Andover, giving ex-
pression to a somnolent admiration. 'Take after your father. Sorry to
interrupt you, Qeorge. Most able discourse. By ihe way, Caroline, you
never give one the treat of the famous old brandy these days. Not for
myself. I never touch brandy; but I was thinking of George. It is
known to be excellent for any kind of disquisition.**
George Betterton, duly fortified with a little of the famous old brandy
and with a yet further supply of Benedictine, which Andover caused to
be conveyed to him, proceeded on his victorious way.
"Country gone to the dogs — ^yes,** said Andover. 'Tiilitia gone to the
dooce — quite so. Circus to-morrow. Miss Goose. But Gobo quite edu-
cational too.**
Andover addressed himself again to slumber with a peaceful, re-
signed, yet vastly contented air.
It was five minutes past three before Caroline Crewkeme quitted the
table. In spite of her fund of natural shrewdness she could not help feel-
ing— so easy it is for the wisest people to deceive themselves in some
things — ^that she had sat at the feet o'f a political Gamaliel who played
ducks and drakes with the War Office. As for George Betterton, having
been endured with a patience that was not always extended to him, with-
out actually giving himself airs, he felt that upon the subject of the
Militia he really was no end of a fellow. Andover, who had enjoyed an
additional thirty-five minutes of undisturbed repose, gave him clearly to
understand that he concurred in that opinion.
Back in the drawing-room Caroline Crewkeme reaflBrmed her inten-
tion of destroying the half -finished portrait of Miss Perry.
"An unpardonable piece of presumption in the first place,** said she.
"And in the second the man was positively insolent.**
Andover had already looked for the canvas, and with a whimsical
little sigh of satisfaction had looked in vain. It would seem that the
myrmidons of the Bond Street (Jalleries had done their work.
"Do be more lenient, my dear Caroline/* said Andover persuasively.
'The fellow is young and his lot is hard. Pray don*t take the bread out
of the mouth of a rising genius who has to support his mother. George,
my dear fellow, throw the weight of your great influence into the scale.
Caroline must be more humane. Hising young man — ^highly susceptible
258 THE FORUM
— wholly capiiTated hj our distxacting His Goose. Any jonng fsHaw
with any tort of instinct for Xatnie at her dioicest would hare dme the
fame.^
Andorer concluded upon an exclamation from the pedonbtabk Caro-
line.
^^Whj/* «he cried^ *^be pictore has been taken away f
Mr. Karchbanka waa gmnmoned.
^wo men from Feabodj'g fetched it an honr ago^ my lady^" Mr.
Marchbanks explained.
'Without my permisgion," stormed his mistress.
^ had no instroctions^ my lady," said Mr. Mardibanks. ^ was un-
der the impression that it was the property of the young painting gentle-
man.^
''You were under the impression T
''Caroline,'' said Andover gravely, "if you hare not been properly
scored off, it looks uncommonly like it. Young fellow evidently didn't
allow the grass to grow under his feet. He said he would send for it
to-morrow, but he seems to have changed his mind« But in my humble
judgment, if you must blame anybody you wiD do well to blame George.
If he hadn't been so devilish interesting on the subject of the Militia it
would never have happened."
CHAPTEB XVI
HYDE PABK
Little recked Jim Lascelles of the train of circumstances which en-
abled his precious half-finished work to return to its maker. When it
arrived at his hermitage at Balham that afternoon he merely saw in its
premature return an additional affront. He took it for granted that the
old woman of Hill Street had ordered it out of the house.
"An absolutely inconceivable old cat,'* Jim assured his mother with
groat truculence.
"I am afraid so, laddie," said his toother sagely. 'Tower is so bad
for poor Female Us."
"She has ruined me," said Jim miserably. "She and that infernal
temper of mine."
"Temper is feminine too, laddie," said Jim's mother profoundly.
"She invariably plays old Harry when she gets hold of the reins."
Perhaps it ought to be stated that Jim's mother had recently tried to
cko out her slender purse by writing a novel. At least that is the only
ARAMTNTA 259
explanation there is to offer of how she came to be so wise. The writing
of novels is very good for the mind, as all the world knows.
Jim was woefully gloomy for many days. He felt that by his un-
lucky outburst he had irretrievably ruined his prospects. And they were
getting bright so suddenly that they had almost seemed to dazzle him.
Not only had he forfeited the hundred pounds which Lord Andover had
promised him for a faithful copy of the Gainsborough, but doubtless
after his unhappy exhibition of temper Lord KendaFs daughter Priscilla
would choose to be painted by somebody else.
This, however, was not the worst. The Goose Girl had passed clean
out of his ken. Henceforward he would be debarred the sight of the
*^runcible hat,'' the Gainsborough frock, and the full-fledged cream-bun
appearance. She had driven the unfortunate young fellow so nearly to
distraction that while he found it impossible to expel her* from his
thoughts, he could not summon the resolution to unlock the door of the
studio he had caused to be set up in the small Balham back garden. It
was nothing less than an affliction to gaze upon the half-finished canvas,
which now could never be completed.
By nature Jim Lascelles was a bright and cheery soul. But the fact
that he had destroyed his prospects **ju8t as things were coming his way'*
by a single unbridled act, made him extremely unhappy. It needed all
Mrs. Lascelles's gay courage and invincible optimism to keep Jim steady
during these days of trial.
*Tinish her out of your head, laddie,*' said she, '*then send her away
and have done with her."
'^Nay," said Jim. 'T must either put all I know into that little work
or stick a knife through the canvas."
Jim brooded dreadfully upon the subject. Black rings came under
his eyes, he smoked too much and ate too little.
"I must and I will see her," said Jim.
"That is the true spirit, my son," said his mother cheerfully.
It is not quite clear whether she ought openly to have expressed her
approval. It was very necessary, all the same, to rouse the unhappy Jim
from the lethargy that was making his life unbearable. At all events he
seemed to derive a certain inward power from the mere resolution.
The next morning Jim made his way to Hyde Park. It was now
June and it was looking its best with the trees, the rhododendrons and the
ladies in full bloom. For some time he stood by the railings with a kind
of indefinite hope that he would be rewarded for his pilgrimage. Then
he began to walk slowly in the direction of Knightsbridge ; and con-
fronted by so much fine plumage he began to wish ruefully that his blue
260 THE FORUM
suit was not so shabby and that his straw hat was not in its second
season.
He was still hopeful, however. He took a careful survey of the riders.
Somewhat oddly his attention was attracted to a heavy red-faced rather
stupid-looking man who was pounding along on a gray horse. His ap-
pearance was perfectly familiar to Jim Lascelles, yet for the moment he
could not remember where and when he had seen him.
It was with an odd mingling of satisfaction and disgust that he was
able to recall the heavy red-faced man's identity. He stopped and turned
to follow him in his progress. Yes, it Was he undoubtedly. And there
at the comer by Apsley House was a chestnut horse, tall, upstanding,
proudly magnificent, surmounted by a royal creature crowned with the
light of the morning. At the respectful distance of thirty paces was Mr.
Collins, Beated as upright as his own cockade upon a more modest
charger. Even he, a man of austere taste and exclusive instinct, did not
attempt to conceal an air of legitimate pride in his company. Mr. Col-
lins had seen nothing that mommg, nor many mornings previously, that
could in any wise compare with the wonderful Miss Perry.
Doubtless it is hardly right to say that Jim Lascelles^s eyes were en-
vious when they followed the man with the red face and marked his
paternal greeting of the Goose Girl. It is hardly fair, for envy is a
vulgar- passion, and Jim was too good a fellow ever to be really vulgar
in anything. All the same it must be confessed that he swore to him-
self softly. He then behaved in a very practical and mundane manner.
He took out his watch, one of those admirable American five-shilling
watches which are guaranteed to keep correct time for a very long period.
*Three minutes past eleven,*^ said Jim. *'Oho, my merry man!"
Precisely what Jim meant by that mystic exclamation it is difficult
to know; but anyhow it seemed to please him. He then observed that
the little cavalcade had wheeled round the comer, and had started to
come down slowly by the railings upon the left
Jim stood to await it with a beating heart. It was a most injudicious
thing to do, but he was in a desperate and defiant humor.
"Five to one she cuts you,'^ Jim muttered. "Two to one she cuts
you dead. They are all alike when they mount the high horse.'*
As Jim Lascelles stood to await the approach of the cavalcade he
no longer thought ruefully of his cheap straw hat and his shabby blue
suit. They had become dear to him as the badge of his impending mar-
tyrdom.
Gobo hugged the railings. He was so close to Jim that he nearly
touched him with his spurs — dummy spurs as Jim noted. Miss Perry
ARAMINTA 261
was explaining that all the girls had white frocks at Buckingham Pal-
ace, and how she wished that MnfiBn had been there, as a white frock
always suited her, although she was inclined to tear it, when Miss
Featherbrain was met by the steady and unflinching gaze of Jim Las-
celles. Instantly her hand went up, not one of darned cotton, but a
yellow, gauntletted aflfair that matched her hair, in quite the regulation
Widdiford manner.
"Why— why," she cried, "it's Jim ! Hallo, Jim."
In the ears of Jim Lascelles the incomparably foolish drawl had never
sounded so absurd and so delicious. It was plainly the intention of
Miss Perry to hold animated conversation with the undeniably handsome
youth who returned her greeting. But the intervention of the highest
branch of the peerage, as solemn as the British Constitution and as solid,
too, between her and the railings; and the fact that there was a reso-
lutely oncoming rearguard in the person of the scandalized Mr. Collins,
who in his own mind was tolerably sure that the presumptuous young
man by the railings had no connection with the peerage whatever, suf-
ficed to keep Miss Perry in the straight path.
Therefore, Jim Lascelles had to be content with one of the old Wid-
diford smiles, which, nevertheless, was enchanting, and a parting wave
of the yellow gauntlet which was the perfection of friendliness, comrade-
ship and natural simplicity. He stood to watch the cavalcade pass
slowly down the ride, the magnificent chestnut and its rider the observed
of all observers, for both were superb and profoundly simple works of
nature. The red-faced and stolid personage on the gray, a more sophis-
ticated pair, were yet well in the picture also, for if less resplendent
they, too, in their way were imposing.
Jim's reverie was interrupted by a voice at his elbow.
"There they go," it satd, "the most iH-assorted pair in England."
With a start of surprise Jim turned to find an immaculate beside
him. Andover was wearing a light gray frock coat with an exaggerated
air of fashion.
"Crabbed age and youth," said Jim, yet quite without bitterness. He
was still glowing with pleasure at his frank and friendly recognition.
"A pitiful sight," said Andover. "A man of his age I How odd it
is that some men are born without a sense of the incongruous."
^TTes," said Jim.
"Gal looks well outside a horse. Very well, indeed. Pity that old
ruffian should ruin so fair a picture."
Andover seemed prepared to criticize his rival's style of horsemanship.
Eeluctantly, however, he forbore to do so. For George had been drill^
2S2 '^^^^ FOBUM
very severdy in his youth; and in spite of his years and his weight he
was able to make a creditable appearance in the saddle.
*T)o yon know/' said Jim, '1 almost regret that I did not attempt
an equestrian portrait/'
Andover's brows went up.
**Upon my word, Lascelles,*' said he, "you are an uncommonly bold
fellow to mention the word portrait.''
"I agree with you," said Jim.
He laughed rather bitterly. Andover aflfected a gravely paternal air.
*Tjascelles," said he, 'T[ think the fact that at school your father im-
bued me with the elements of wisdom gives some sort of sanction to a
little plain speaking on my part."
"Go on," said Jim, with gloomy resignation. "Rub it in."
"I think, Lascelles," said Andover, with a fine assumption of th«
air of a 'Tiead beak," ''your conduct merits censure in the highest
degree."
"It has received it," said Jim. "I have been kicking myself ever
since for being such a hot-headed fool."
"One is almost afraid," said Andover ruefully, "that the indiscretion
you committed is irreparable. Beally, Lascelles, making due allowance
for the fact that your father was one of the most rash and hasty men
I ever encountered, and allowiug further for the fact that my old friend
has a deplorable absence of, shall we say, finesse, your behavior amounted
neither more nor less than to suicide."
"I don't regret what I did," said Jim, "as far as that old Gorgon of
a woman is concerned. I am afraid I should behave in just the same
way again if I were placed in a similar position. But of course it is a
very serious thing for me. As for the portrait I intend by hook or by
crook to finish it."
"Well, Lascelles," said Andover, giving the young fellow a kindly
touch on the arm in parting, "do what you can; and when the work
is complete you must let me see it."
It was a new Jim Lascelles who returned to Balham by the twelve-
thiriy from Victoria and took luncheon with his mother. He called at
the green grocer's just as you get out of the station, and arrived at
the Acacias with a number of paper bags tucked under each arm. He
hummed the favorite air in the very latest musical comedy, while he
proceeded to make a salad whose mysteries he had acquired in Paris.
He had been initiated into them by Monsieur Bonnat, the famous chef
of the Hotel Brinvilliers. And it so happened that Jim's mother, who
spoiled him completely, had purchased a lobster, which she really
ARAMINTA
couldn't afford, such was the current price of that delicacy and the
present state of her finances, to cheer Jim up a bit.
"My dear," said Jim, "let us have the last bottle of the Johannis-
berg/'
Miranda, the demure little maid of all work, was ordered rather
magnificently to procure the same.
"Piiy His, 'tis the last," said Jim, who proceeded to toast his mother.
"May those precious publishers," said he, **leam truly to appreciate a
very remarkable literary genius, my dear."
"I am afraid they do, dear boy," said she. 'That is the trouble."
"It is a rattling good story, anyhow," said Jim stoutly.
"It certainly ends as every self-respecting and well-conducted story
ought But this old addle pate hasn't a spark of literary genius in it."
"Oh, hasn't it !" said Jim, bringing his fist upon the table. "George
Sand is a fool to you, my dear."
'T)ear fellow," said Jim's mother with a smile of pleasure. "At
any rate, I am enough of a genius to like appreciation. But with you,
laddie, it is different. You are the real right thing, as dear Henry
James would say."
"Oh, am I ?" said Jim. "Well, here's to the Heal, Bight Thing, which-
^ ever of us has it. I know which side of the table it is if you don't."
"The Bealest, Bightest Thing is outside in the garden waiting for
the hand of the master to complete her," said Mrs. Lascelles.
"Ye gods, the hand of the master I" said Jim. "You pile it on
'a leetle beet tick,' as Monsieur Gillet would say to you. But shall
I tell you a secret? I saw the Goose Girl this morning."
"Of course you did, dear boy."
*^ow did you guess ?"
"The step on the gravel told me."
"You are wonderful, you know," said Jim. "Fancy your finding it
out like that when I tried hard to walk slowly."
"That vain, wicked, foolish and depraved Goose," said Jim's mother.
"You met her in Hyde Park this morning walking with her Duke, and
she gave you a smile, and if she was more than usually foolish she said,
'Why, it's Jim!'"
"She was en cheval. But you are wonderful, you know," said Jim.
"Biding was she?" said Jim's mother. "And pray how did the great
overgrown creature look outside a horse?"
"I could never have believed it," said Jim. "She was mounted on
a glorious chestnut, a great mountain of a beast, a noble stepper, and
in her smart new habit and in an extraordinarily fashionable topper —
264 THE FORUM
think on it, my dear, the Goose Girl in a topper ! — she was a picture for
the gods/*
"One can readily believe," said Jim's mother, "that the creature
would set high Olympus in a roar/*
"She was to the manner born,** said Jim. "She might have learned
the art of equitation in Vhauie ecole instead of in the home paddock at
Widdif ord on that screw of the dear old governor's.**
"Oh no, dear boy,** said Jim*s mother with decision, "poor dear
Melanchthon was anything but a screw. He was by Martin Luther out
of Moll Cutpurse. He won the point to point on three occasions.**
"I humbly beg Melanchthon*s pardon,** said Jim. "That explains
why the Goose Girl comes to be so proficient. She certainly looked this
morning as if she had never sat anything less than the blood of Carbine.**
"I think the secret of the whole matter, my son,** said Jim*s mother
profoundly, "is that the Female Us is so marvellously adaptable. If she
is really smartly turned out on a fine morning in June with a real
live duke on the off side of her and all London gazing at her, if she
had never learned to sit anything else than a donkey she would still
contrive to look as though she had won the whole gymkhana. It is just
that quality that makes the Female lis so wonderful. It is just that
that maketh Puss so soon get too big for her dancing slippers.**
"Well, you wise woman,** said Jim, "the Goose Girl would have
taken all the prizes this morning. And she didn't even cut me.**
"Cut you, laddie !** exclaimed Jim*s mother. "Gott in himmel ! that
Gkx>se cut you indeed!**
"There are not many Goose Girls that wouldn't have done it," said
Jim, "in the circumstances. But she is True Blue. And I am going
to finish her portrait. And I am going to make her permanently famous.**
Jim's mother tilted the last of the Johannisberg into his glass.
"Go in and win, dear boy," said she. 'TTou have genius. Lavish
it upon her. Earn fame and fortune, and buy back the Bed House at
Widdiford."
"And in the meantime," said Jim, "she will have married that old
fossil and borne him three children."
"She will not, dear boy," said the voice of the temptress, "if you
make her promise not to."
"Oh, that wouldn't be cricket," said Jim, "with her people so miser-
ably poor and James Lascelles by no means affluent; and the old fossil
with a house in Piccadilly, and another in Notts, and another in Fife-
shire, and a yacht in the Solent, and a box at the opera, and a mauso-
leum at Kensal Green. No, old lady, I'm afraid it wouldn't be cricket."
ARAMINTA
Jim*s mother exposed herself to the censure of all self-respecting
people.
"It would be far less like cricket/* said she, "for that perfect dear of a
Goose to have her youth, her beauty and her gaiety purchased by a
worldly old ruflBan old enough to be her grandfather. Come, sir, she
awaits her very parfit gentil knight/'
But Jim shook his head solemnly.
'Tfo, old lady,'' said he, "I am afraid it wouldn't be playing the
game."
All the same, immediately luncheon was over Jim took the key of
his studio off the sitting-room chimney piece, and went forth to the mis-
shapen wooden erection in the small Balham back garden. The key
turned in the lock stif9y. It was nearly three weeks since it had last
been in it. For several hours he worked joyfully, touching and retouch-
ing the picture and improvising small details out of his head. And all
the time the Goose Girl smiled upon him in the old Widdiford manner.
Her hair had never looked so yellow and her eyes had never looked so
blue.
CHAPTEB XVII
DEVELOPMENT OF THE FEMALE US
The next morning, a little before eleven, the wonderful Miss Perry,
accompanied by the admirable Mr. Collins, was approaching Apsley
House when the figure of a solitary horseman was to be seen. It had
a combination of unexpectedness and familiarity which fixed Miss
Perry's attention. She gave a little exclamation. The horseman was
unmistakably Jim Lascelles.
Jim received a most affectionate greeting.
'TTou are just in time," said he. "It is a near thing. Gobo is yon-
der in the offing. I was afraid he would get here before you."
Miss Perry was delighted but perplexed by a suggestion that Jim
put forward. It was that they shoiild go down the left while Gobo rode
up on the right.
^T3ut I promised Gobo," she said.
'Tiook here. Goose Girl," said Jim with tremendous resolution, "do
you suppose I have invested the last half sovereign I have in the world
on the worst hack in London to be cut out by that old duffer? Come
on round, you Goose, before he gets up."
Really Miss Perry is not to be blamed. Jim Lascelles was resolu-
tion incarnate once he had made up his mind. Jim's horse, a nonde-
2gg THE FORUM
script who does not merit serious notice, walked a few paces briskly, the
chestnut followed its example, as chestnuts will, and the next thing was
Jim's horse broke into a canter. The chestnut did the same. Of course
it was Miss Ferry's business to see that the chestnut did nothing of the
sori;. But it has to be recorded that she failed in her obvious duty. And
then so swift is the road to destruction, in less time than it takes to in-
form the incredulous reader, the chestnut and the nondescript began
literally to fly down Eotten Bow.
It was a golden morning of glorious June, and of course things con-
stantly happen at that vernal season. But as the four pairs of irresponsi-
ble hoofs came thundering by, flinging up the tan in all directions and
nearly knocking over a policeman, equestrians of both sexes and pedes-
trians too stared in polite amazement and very decided disapproval.
If not absolutely contrary to the Park regulations it was certainly very
wrong behavior.
There is every reason to believe that the opinion of that high au-
thority, Mr. Collins, was even more uncompromising. Not for an instant
did he attempt to cope with the pace that had been set. He was content
sadly to watch his charge get farther and farther away. He then turned
to look back at the man with the red face who had just arrived at the
turn.
That elevated personage^ who could not see at all well without his
spectacles, halted at the turn and looked in vain for the wonderful
Miss Perry. His friend Andover, who had entered the gatee just in
time to be au caurant with all that had happened, accosted him cheer-
fiiUy.
"Doctor's orders, (Jeorge?"
**Ye-€-s," said George rather gruffly.
^T. warned you years ago, my dear fellow," said his friend sympa-
thetically, ''that any man who drinks port wine in the middle of the
day as a regular thing can count later in life on the crown of the
martyr."
George looked rather cross. He peered to the right and he peered
to the left. The ever-receding pair were by now undecipherable to
stronger eyes than those of George Betterton.
"Seen a gal about?" he inquired rather irritably. There never was
a duke since the creation of the order who could endure to be kept waiting.
"I've seen several," said his friend with an air of preternatural inno-
cence.
"I mean that gal of Caroline Crewkerne's," said George.
"I was not aware that she had one."
AEAMINTA 267
'*Tall, bouncing gal/* said George. "Ginger hair/'
"Ginger hair/' said his friend. "Tall, bouncing girl. Do you mean
my ward. Miss Perry?''
'Tottf ward/' said George. *^What d'ye mean, Andover?"
"Caroline Crewkeme seems to think/' said Andover coolly, "that I
shall serve the best interests of a lonely and unprotected and extraordi-
narily prepossessing girlhood if I act as it were in loco parentis during
Miss Perry's sojourn in the vast metropolis."
George began to gobble furiously. It was a sign, however, that his
mind was working. That heavy and rusiy mechanism was very diffi-
cidt to set in motion.
"If it comes to that," said he, '? should say I am quite as capable
of looking after the gal as you are."
"A matter of opinion, George, I assure you," said Andover with
genial candor.
"What d'ye mean?" said George.
"For one thing I am rather older than you," said his friend, "and
therefore in Caroline's opinion I am better fitted to occupy the paternal
office."
"Are you though?" said George stubbornly.
"I am sixty-five, you know," said his friend with an air of modest
pride. "The ideal age, if I may say so, for wisdom, experience and
knowledge of the world to coalesce in the service of innocence, beauty
and extreme youth. At least I know that is Caroline Crewkeme's opin-
ion."
"(Join' to marry the gal, are you?" said George bluntly.
Some men are very blunt by nature.
"The exigencies of the situation may render that course expedient,"
said Andover rather forensically. "But in any case, my dear George,
speaking with the frankness to which I feel that my advantage in years
entitles me, I am inclined to doubt the seemliness of the open pursuit by
a man of nine and fifty of a wayside flower."
''What d'ye mean, Andover?" said George with a more furious gobble
than any he had yet achieved.
"What I really mean, my dear fellow," said his friend, "is that you
can no longer indulge in the pleasures of the chase without your spec-
tacles. Had you been furnished with those highly useful if not specially
ornamental adjuncts to the human countenance, you would have been
able to observe that the wonderful Miss Perry — ^whose hair, by the way,
is yellow — ^was spirited away exactly ninety seconds before you arrived
on the scene."
2gg THE FORUM
''Who took her?'* said George, who by now had grown purple with
suppressed energy.
"A young fellow took her," said Andover. "A smart, dashing, well
set up young fellow took her, my dear George. He simply came up,
tossed her the handkerchief, and away they set off, hell for leather. By
now they are at the Albert Memorial."
No sooner was this information conveyed to him than George Better-
ton did a vain and foolish thing. Without bestowing another word upon
Andover he set off in pursuit. It was supremely ridiculous tiiat
he should have behaved in any such fashion. But it is surprising how
soon the most stalwart among us loses his poise; how soon the most care-
ful performer topples off the tight rope of perfect discretion and sanity.
The spectacle of George pursuing the runaways with a haste that was
almost as unseemly as their own was certainly romantic. And at the
same time it provided infinitely pleasant food for the detached observer
who was responsible for George^s behavior.
Andover stood to watch and to laugh sardonically. The marionette
had begun to answer to the strings in delightful fashion. He promised
to excel all anticipation.
{To he continued)
THE COMING OP APHRODITE
[PABIS speaks]
BY CHABLES T. ROQEBS
'Twas such a day as Uf ts its sunny head
Not half a score of times 'twixt birth and death;
One of those days when, seeming to relent.
The gods unroll in golden characters
Writ large across the halting imiverse
The riddle of this life — ^the missing word
Leaps almost to the lip — ^then, like a stone,
Palls back upon the bafi9ed heart again;
Even such a day as this, now hardly dead.
That brought remembrance of cool Ida's grove
Where I made choice, and linked consequence
Stretched on therefrom to chain the foolish world.
THE COMING OF APHRODITE 269
Deep mazed/I paused^ slow poising in my hand
The apple, and in shaken silence strove
To hold true balance of their promises.
Hera, the mother-look deep in her eyes
And shyly wistful shoulder that invites
To its faint hollow sweet the weary head,
Gave pledge of lifelong happiness and peace:
Bright Pallas in her stark, cold beauty leaned
To tempt with honors large, while her gray eye
Lit with a spark of promise that forespeUed
A hope of fire behind her blue-veined bust
To warm its aureoled peaks.
And then She came —
The Paphian One, whose hint of cooling foam.
Clinging to Her, scarce made endurable
The dread delight of Her. As She drew near,
The budding wood about Her burst and leaped
To brighter green mid Springes faint, pale-gold haze.
While all the throbbing world in time did keep
The undulance of Her light, swaying walk :
One hand did stay a leaping breast perverse.
Tormenting with its peeping, half -hid charm :
Her eye, alight with Spring, did catch and hold
Springes guerdons closer than is mortals' wont
For that She had seen many Springs slow die: —
The changeful music of her voice slid on
From notes of shivered silver lower down
To golden undertones that widened round
In sighing vibrances of deeper ptdse
Than deepest string, soft smitten, of the lyre —
'Taris, if thou wilt choose me, I will give
To thee, the fairest woman in the world.''
My heart so shaken was it seemed to me
As though the whole wide, ravening sea therein
Made tumidt; each fierce wave, a wave of flame.
"But Thou, but Thou,'' was all my stammering tongue
Could say while reaching forth to Her my hands
So close the apple 'gainst Her girdle smote.
Then She did laugh, nor shrank from me away :
'^She shall be fair as I, and over thee
270 '^^^^^^ FORUM
With her eyes shall I keep true watch alway*' —
And so was gone^ the apple Against Her cheek.
But now, but now, even as it was to-day,
I hear Her voice in clear-sent whisper call
To me amid the clamor of the siege.
Alluring me from meteor-streaming spears.
The locking shields, the searching swords, bright wounds
And joy of combat, unto Helenas arms;
Some strange, mad dream that tortures with a hint
^at She is Helen's self and Helen*Hers.
Yet always the tempestous rapture fades
And leaves but dross filchM of Menelaus.
Aye, there she lies now in her chamber dim,
Her shape curved down the couch, white through the gloom.
That I coidd almost loathe; her restless sleep
Broken a score of times to stretch hot arms
And crave yet more caresses. Yet in dreams
She babbles of her Spartan home.
Oh, Gods,
That I might whiff once more the first faint reek
Of my rekindled fire and from my door
Olance out o'er Ida's black, gashed, misty gorge
To spy my goats on wet cliffs opposite
Nose toward the crisping herbage of the dawn;
Might hear the wakening cry of my own son
End suddenly against Aenone's breast
And clasp them both, tight, tight, within my arms.
And yet, I cannot go. Oh, sick, sick dreams 1
Such as do follow frays and many wounds.
Here must I stay while Trojan women 'reft
Bevile me as I move along the walls
And hungry children mock me in the streets;
While Hecuba gives aye a toothless curse
As I draw near, fixing on me the bale,
Unwavering, of her sightless, hollow eyes.
Charles T. Rogers,
AN INSPIRING ORIENTALIST
BY ALBERT SOHINZ
(Professor of Romance Language in Bryn Ifawr College)
About fifteen or twenty years ago students in European colleges and
universities were passing secretly from hand to hand novels of a strange
character. They discussed the author among themselves^ but they did not
speak to their professors^ because they felt sure beforehand that the books
would not be approved ; although perhaps not realizing what fascinated
them so, they were sure they liked the weird, mystic note, and words of
irony or criticism might spoil their delight.
This was the time when Naturalism was being violently shaken from
right and left; everywhere people were tired of brutal realism, and an
intense desire for a change of atmosphere in art was manifest; as
usual, professors were the last ones to yield; they long remained true
to the creed of their generation (and of their lectures) when the public
was already applauding Daudet's sentimentalism, so little in keeping
with apathic Zolaism and when Symbolists were gathering around them
many a disciple. As to the man who fascinated our youth, he was strik-
ing a new note too, but he did not belong to either of the two move-
ments just mentioned. F^ladan had been bom in Lyons, in 1859 ; pos-
sessed of a genial enthusiasm and a thoroughly artistic nature, he
found in himself energy enough to start a movement of reaction all on
his own account. Within a few years he wrote twenty novels under
the general title La decadence latine, in which he fought both modem
evils of absence of art, and of absorption of art by science; and those
novels of his ''Ethopfe," Le vice suprhme. La victoire du mari, U Andro-
gyne we curiously devoured. If there was a thing the author did not
care about, it was to describe characters that were *^reaP* in the ordinary
sense of the word (as in Zola for instance) ; and another peculiarity, a
thing almost incredible in our age, was his olympian indifference toward
all social and .economic problems. His heroes were not unfrequently
above the laws of time and space; besides their material bodies, they en-
joyed the privilege of travelling around in an ethereal body; everywhere
prevailed the romanesque atmosphere of magics and of necromancy. All
this proved, in fact, much too anti-realistic for the general public, who
did not see the intensely spiritual aspirations back of those stories. But
for the 61ite, the originality of this extraordinary man was evident;
and with a few disciples, P^ladan organized a society, which has re-
mained famous, the Order of the Bose et Croix — ^an imitation of the
272 ^^^^^^ FOBUM
order of the same name in the Middle Ages, whose members de-
voted themselves to the study of the problems of a supernatural life.
The members of the order called themselves *'Magi," and their chief
took the title of ''Qar'' — Whence the name of Qar Pfladan, under which
our author is still known. They held their reimions, open only to the
initiated, somewhere in Paris, and often represented plays that savored
of ancient and oriental mysteries.
It seemed to me interesting to recall the early career of Pfladan
before speaking of his last work, which is that of an erudite. Age has
somewhat tempered the ardor of youth; the Qbt gave up the Order, but
he still believes like Hamlet:
There are more things in heaven and earthy Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
He stiU scorns those little laws of nature which our modern scholars
endeavor to make us believe are the essence of wisdom. The priests of
former creeds, Magism, Zoroastrism, Buddhism, Pythagoreanism, Eleusian-
ism. Gnosticism, and so forth, knew surely more than we do, or at least
were surely looking for a truth more worth while than the one that gave
us telegraph, telephone and automobiles. P61adan is a devout Catholic,
yet he sees in the mystic rites of the Church much more than formal
ceremonies to dazzle the faithful; he sees in them the direct outcome
of the oriental and Greek mysteries, the modern manifestation of similar
aspirations. He has therefore devoted years of study and has done ex-
tensive travelling in Eastern countries in order to learn whatever pos-
sible of the ideas of these early sages. To his keen sense of interpreta-
tion of myths and art, he adds an erudition that would do honor to many
an old German professor.^ He has given us already several inspiring
volumes regarding the different countries thus explored by him, and now
his last book — ^to which I wish to call attention here* — is a remarkable
summary of the present state of Oriental studies, a summary that can-
not fail to be welcome to those interested in the numerous expeditions sent
out year after year to the holy land and other countries mentioned in
the Bible.
In a suggestive Introduction, P61adan explains the real meaning of
archeological studies. After reading him, we understand better why the
^In 1901 he made a very interesting discovery by means of scholarly computa-
tions. He discovered, namely, that the grotto visited by pilgrims to Jerusalem as
the holy sepulchre was not the real place where the body of Christ had been
deposited; but that the real sepulchre was in the Mosque of Omar.
■Lc« Ideea et les Formes, Aniiquiii Orientale, Par Josephin P4ladan. Paris:
Mercure de France. 1008.
AN INSPIRING ORIENTALIST £73
word '^Arf * is so vague a term to-day. He demonstrates how printing
has wrought irremediable damage to art^ especially to plastic art. There
was a time when people, with a very few exceptions, could neither write
nor read; ideas were conveyed to them by architecture and other arts:
a pyramid, a temple, a palace, were then nothing but very large hiero-
glyphs. To-day, on the contrary, when we wish to express ideas we
write them down, print them, and the people to whom they are destined '
read them from the books. On the one hand, therefore, art has become
useless ; conveying ideas by means of books is the simplest and surest
way; doing it by art is only a luxury on our part; this has brought about
our modem "art for the sake of art," which in itself is nonsense:
^Trinting has substituted words for forms, and closed the era of syn-
thetic art to open the era of analysis and specialization. . . . To-day
art for the sake of art, which, not a doctrine, but a fact resulting from
social conditions, is synonymous with speaking without saying anything.'*
On the other hand, we have, owing to lack of practice, become blind for
the understanding of antique art ; man has learned how to read, but he
has forgotten how to see. 'There is as much transcendental meta-
physics in a marble statue or column, as in a treatise of Aristotle's;
only those who read are thousands as compared with the few who can
QAA "
What Victor Hugo did in his immortal novel Notre Dame de Paris,
namely, interpret in words the ideas, beliefs, hopes, expressed in the
architecture of the great cathedral, Pfladan does for us with the
monuments of oriental antiquity; he reads them for us. This, for
instance, is his characterization of the Egyptian temple : It does not rise
(like, for instance, our cathedrals with their spires), it stretches hori-
zontally, it almost creeps on the ground, the immense area of its basis
is the striking feature, thus "aesthetically, it expresses more certitude than
hope :^ the staunch confidence of the priest in his gods ; it is an architec-
ture of creeds, of powerful affirmation.'' Compare also this characteriza-
tion of the Buddhist temple : "The Hindoo never had the sense of archi-
tecture; shortsighted sBsthetically, he sees the interest only of the little
spot which he touches, and he remains dead-set on that. Ifow, the im-
pression of the beautiful results only from a harmony in the proportions,
and there remains no proportion with the mad carving of the Aryan
people on the shores of the Ganges. Our middle ages conceived of, and
realized, the idea of the stone lace, but we framed it within the generic
lines of the edifice, without allowing it to outstrip or deform those lines.
*The spire shooting up, the ogiyp, ejc., gf Western countries, of Christianity,
would express hope.
274 THE FORUM
The endless carving is the. worst vice. The pagoda of Chawmuch, at
Satrunji, has no longer any form/'
Presented that way, archaeology is no longer a dry science for special-
ists, it becomes a fascinating study; and it is because he knows so well
how to get in the little remark which illuminates everything that P61a-
dan is so valuable a guide. His chief purpose has been to summarize for
us all that is at present known of the history of the Orient that may
serve us as keys to understand better the Oriental art and the riches that
accumulate so rapidly in all our museums.
As a sample of the elegance, the concision and the absolute clearness
of P61adan's style, I should like to quote a passage which summarizes
the hjrpothesis suggested to modem scholarship by all the data in hand
regarding prehistoric times:
'^he highest antiquity is found at the delta of the Kile and at that
of the Euphrates.
'^However, civilization went up the river instead of down; a fact
which would suggest that it was brought there by sea and all complete,
since the works of art at Memphis prove to be the most perfect of Egypt.
^'According to traditions, the famous deluge would have engulfed a
continent, Atlantis, which was then the abode of a complete civilization;
and the Atlantic race, or Red race, dispersed by the cataclysm would be
found again, prosperous near the Nile, less abundant and rapidly mixed
in Chaldea, erring and disabled on the Armorican coasts, stupefied and
decayed in North America . . . one may also suppose that those who
were to fix themselves definitively on the shores of the Nile, landed at first
at ttie delta of ttie Euphrates, and then not finding this marshy country
favorable for permanent staying, they left in large quantities the Persian
delta, crossed tiie desert, and established themselves at the oQier delta.''
However that may be, is it not interesting to see that modem scholarship
is gradually driving us toward the old biblical doctrine of the unity of
human civilization? To the writer, after closing the book, this seems
the most valuable demonstration of it. He grants that he may be preju-
diced, for his own studies in linguistics and literature have for a long
time inclined him to admit, at the bottom of all our civilizations, no
matter how varied they look to us now, one common source, and the
pagan legend of Atlantis and the biblical story of Babel seem to be only
two diflPerent versions of one and the same prehistoric fact. But now
there are remarkable little bits of evidence strewn in the pages of ttie
book under consideration, and nobody can fail to see their value in con-
nection with this problem: how does it come that the coat of arms of
the city of Paris represents the barge of the Egyptian goddess Isis? or
AN INSPIRING ORIENTALIST 275
that the snperstitiouB belief in the were-wolf existed in all antiqnity in
Egypt and among the Celts, and nowhere between? The Welsh menhir
or dolmen, the Egyptian obelisk, the Bethels of the people in the holy
land, are without any possibility of a doubt the same monument; the
Chaldean system of triads of gods is strikingly similar to that of the
Celtic mabinogi. And again look at the relations between Chinese and
Chaldean civilization and language ; or the same notion of what a monu-
ment for the dead ought to be in Egypt and in the earliest time known
of the Chinese civilization. These and many other facts cannot be ex-
plained by mere chance.
One of the best chapters that illustrates the instructive method of
P^ladan, and his contempt for accumulation of non-relevant facts is
that on Phenicia. Everywhere you find the Phenicians; they travelled
more extensively than any other peoples ; to judge by their colonies they
must be one of the most genial races of antiquity. But Pfladan says :
'TPhe Phenician is the least of the Semites. He left us neither an art of
his own, nor a literature, and one may add not even a religion. But
studied in his unceasing moving about as a inerchant-navigator, he
creates so numerous contacts, so frequent contacts between so diverse
peoples, that the history of civilization would become incomprehensible
without him.'* His greediness has served him instead of genius; the un-
pleasant character is shown in the minutest things, even in the hand-
writing of the Phenicians as compared with that of other nations : 'Trom
the point of view of graphology, this cursive hand corresponds to the
writing of the miser.'* Finally, see how clearly he states an interesting
anthropological problem : '^One can reconcile only with diflBculty the ac-
tivity and the boldness of the race with ttie abomination of its morality.
It makes one almost think that those eternal corrupters cultivated vices
in order to understand them better so as to cater for them better.*'
The chapter on Israel is a good test for the impartiality of P61adan.
He writes, this devout Catholic, with perfect ease and calm, arid without
pose for paradox or apologies for heterodoxy, such disturbing little para-
graphs as: "Archaeology has ruined the religious prestige of Israel.'*
Or further down : 'One has been deceived up to quite recent times with
regard to the origin and the real center of humanity. Jerusalem will no
longer be, from now on, what it was for Bacine. That mediocre city held
the position which belonged to a more venerable past. ..." 'There is
no Jewish art: the Decalogue had forbidded carved images, and to
represent materially, things heavenly or infernal." The explanation of
the part played by Israel is thus given: 'TTie recent researches and
comparison of texts prove that the originality of ttie Bible is more in
r
276 '^^^'^ FORUM
the perfection of an incomparable poetry than in ideas^ and that alone
the literary man was great in Israel: this is what won over occidental
imagination^ when the Gospel has appeared to him as if it were a sort
of second volume and a realization of the Semitic book/' Why it took
so long to find out that there was no relation between the old Testament
and the new^ this^ F^ladan admits^ is not easily understood : '^o matter
how great the literary beauty of the Bible may be, its adoption by the
occidental races remains the most insoluble problem of history, although
it owes its good fortune to the fact that it was given out as the prologue
to the Qospel."
Albert Schinz,
JHE TENNELLS' BOOK ON WHISTLER
BY ARTHUR HOEBER
Interesting as is the book by Mr. and Mrs. Fennell, The Life of
James McNeill Whistler — ^and there is not a dull page in the two vol-
umes— ^it is a thousand pities permission was legally denied them to insert
therein the many letters from the dead artist that were available, for he
was no less brilliant with his pen than he was with his tongue, and he
surely did not lack for cleverness with the latter. Perhaps, however,
we ought to take the gifts the gods have sent us with due humility and
appreciation and not ask for too much, looking happy the while. At
any rate, the reader will not lack for amusement and entertainment.
Incidentally he will gather many notions of the life, the artistic crowd,
and the happenings that covered a period of some fifty years more or
less, a half century of a very crowded life, one of great activity, astonish-
ing experiences, of failure and success, of bitter struggles and animosi-
ties, of few friendships and those invariably broken after a while, of
mingled homage and ridicule, both disproportionate, — in short, of a career
that is scarcely paralleled in the history of art. It is the strange story of
a most earnest man with a highly irascible temper, who took himself
always with the greatest seriousness and managed by the sheer strength
of his personality fairly to hypnotize all with whom he came in contact ;
a man so singularly artistic in every fibre of his being that you could
never mistake his endowment. The inartistic jarred upon him as a
wrongly-played chord would have affected a musician, and to the smallest
detail he insisted on the fitness of things. The personality, too, was
purely mental, for physically he was most insignificant; while toward
the end of his life, strangely wrinkled, his hair dyed, a»d elfiborately,
THE PENNELLS' BOOK ON WHISTLER 277
not to say insistently curled, himself dressed in anytliing but fashionable
garments, he was a singular spectacle. Thus he appeared to the present
reviewer, who met him for the first time in May, 1888, at dinner at the
house of Mortimer Menpes, in London, whither came Whistler and
"Maud,^^ the former then on terms of the greatest intimacy with Menpes,
with whom there was shortly to come the inevitable break. Mr. PennelFs
impression of him was much the same, as we leam in the second volume.
He met him for the first time on July 13, 1884— dates are given through-
out the books with commendable exactitude — at Whistler^s house in
Tite Street, Chelsea. He had gone to call to get him to do some work
for the Century Magazine and he was armed with a letter of introduction
from Bichard Watson^Qilder. The door, in response to his knock, was
opened wide by the master himself. Says Mr. Pennell: "Save for his
little black ribbon tie, he was all in white — ^his waistcoat had long sleeves
— and every minute it seemed as if he must begin to juggle with glasses.
For, to be honest, my first thought when I s^w him was that a bar-
keeper had strayed from a Philadelphia saloon into a Chelsea studio.
Never had I seen that thick mass of black curling hair before except on
the head of the man at Pinelli's in Chestnut Street.'* This, it must be
remembered, is from one who was perhaps the most faithful of all
Whistler's genuine admirers. Such, indeed, was the appearance he gave
the reviewer, and though the moment he began to talk he held one, still
it took some time to get rid of the first impression.
The Pennells saw much of Whistler in the latter part of his life and
received at first hand many of his impressions of men and things, many
reminiscences, and they learned much of his earlier struggles, for it was
he who asked them to write the story of his life. Thus it was that
they made copious notes, lay awake apparently to frame questions he
should answer, important and necessary questions be it understood, ques-
tions quite proper and of the greatest value in enabling them to prepare
these books. That they went at their task affectionately and sympa-
thetically is evident at a glance, and they have, with their literary ex-
perience and capacity, done wonders. Occasionally they have possibly
overstepped the line, telling here and there an incident that were best
left out and dropping into exaggerations; but in the main the reader
receives a reasonably exact view of the man, who was eccentric to a re-
markable degree; who, while he furnishes splendid material for a biog-
raphy, would at times have tried the patience of Job himself. Many
cities have been claimed as his birthplace, but although Whistler chose
in his humorous way to deny it at times, it was at Lowell that he first
saw light, and this Massachusetts town has since made an effort to pre-
278 ^™^ FORUM
serve the honse. A man from that town once told him that he as well
was bom there. Whistler replied, '1 shall be bom where I want, and I
do not choose to be bom at Lowell/' He was baptized James Abbott,
but later he dropped the Abbott and took his mother's maiden name of
McNeill. His father was an engineer oflBcer of the TJ. S. Army, and the
Bussian Government employed him to build a railroad from St. Peters-
burg to Moscow; so it was that as a lad Whistler went to Bussia with
his mother. to join the father already there, and he stayed some years.
His sister, on a trip to England, met the eminent surgeon and later
etcher, Seymour Haden, whom she married, and so was enabled to give
her brother something of a home in London when he came there from
Paris, whither he had gone to study art. For he had from his earliest in-
fancy shown signs of that taste, though it was not thought to be much of
a career for him. In 1851, an appointment having been secured,
he went to West Point, where he entered the United States Military
Academy.
The story of his experiences there has been told many times. They
talk about him yet in the officer's mess, and his famous explanation of
his retirement is a household word. His ^^t silicon had been a gas, I
would have been a Major-Gteneral," is quoted the world over. But it
seems that his horsemanship was little better than his chemistry, and
though he left many interesting memories behind him, it was quite evi-
dent the good Lord had not intended him to be a soldier. Yet to the
end he never tired of talking of the Point, and he held to many of the
traditions of the place. Particularly was this true of his later days.
Like dear old Colonel Newcome and his memories of Grayfriars,
Whistler would constantly revert to old times on the banks of the Hud-
son, and there was a pathos about it too. The year before he died, when
he was seriously ailing, he received an expected visit from the great
French sculptor, Bodin. There was no work in view about the place, and
so it is evident that Bodin was delicate about saying anything in refer-
ence to it and thus putting Whistler to any trouble in the matter. This
is Whistler's account of the visit. '*It was all very charming. Bodin
distinguished in every way — ^the breakfast very elegant — ^but — ^well, you
know, you will understand. Before they came, naturally, I put my work
out of sight, canvases up against the wall with their backs turned —
nothing in evidence. And you know, never once, not even after break-
fast, did Bodin ask to see anything, not that I wanted to show anything
to Bodin, I needn't tell you — ^but in a man so distinguished, it seemed
a want of — ^well, of what West Point would have demanded under the
circumstances/'
THE PENNELLS' BOOK ON WHISTLER 279
The Latin Quarter of Whistler was still the Latin Quarter of Henri
Murger, whom Whistler got to know when he went to Paris, where,
speaking the language fluently and being at heart much of a Latin, he
had more association with the Parisians than with the English or Ameri-
cans. Even late in life Whistler was always quoting Murger^ and he
delighted in the company of extreme bohemians, men who had barely
the necessities of living. Indeed^ in the student days he had some ac-
quaintances whom he referred to as his "No-shirt f riends,'* men to whom
later he lent his atelier^ but who so abused his hospitality that finally he
was obliged to give them up altogether. A lot of the Englishmen
who subsequently became royal academicians and great swells, Leighton,
Poynter and others, were there at the time, as well as DuMaurier; but
Whistler made fun of them and he was really never one of them. He
didn't work very hard, according to his friend the sculptor Drouet, for
he went too frequently to the students' balls, rarely getting up before
noon. In short, he was a type of student that the quariier sees,
alas ! very frequently. He must have pulled himself together, however,
because one way or another he did considerable work when all is con-
sidered, despite these reports. When he had money — ^generally for a short
while after his allowance arrived — ^he spent it in a princely fashion, and
then he would resort to anything to meet his passing needs, even to the
pawning of his coat, which he did once in the summer-time, going for
several days in his shirt-sleeves.
Toward 1859 he was continually coming and going between Paris
and London, visiting his sister. Lady Haden, at the latter ciiy, not always
to the delight of herself or her husband, for he had a way of bringing
over friends who were not invariably presentable. Some of these shied
at the shower bath in the house, not being accustomed to such luxuries.
When Legros, the artist, first heard the sound of this bath in Haden's
house he enchanted Whistler by asking him, "Mais, man cher, qu'esi
que (fesi que ceite espece de cataracte de Niagara f But Whistler
settled down now in London and took up with the fellows among the Eng-
lish crowd he had known in Paris. He became at once a leader, for
despite his eccentricity he was a most amusing chap, whose gaiety was
contagious and who led in all the fun. He was a great amateur actor
and never, in any direction, was he like any one else. In 1860 he had
finished his "At the Piano,'' which attracted some favorable attention,
and was bought by John Phillip, the academician, for thirty pounds.
It subsequently, during Whistler's own lifetime, brought two thousand
eight hundred pounds. The Daily Telegraph, however, thought it "an
eccentric, uncouth, smudgy, phantom-like picture of a lady at a piano-
2g0 ^E'HB FORUM
f orte^ with a ghostly-lookiiig child/' And it is an interesting fact that
from the firsts even though it was rarely praise he received^ he was
always noticed^ never ignored. Though he went to Paris frequently and
did not a little work there, he made his home ever afterward in
London, attracted by the charm of its fogs, its river, architecture and
life, the Thames specially holding him enchanted. He dearly loved
this river, painting it, etching it and spending much time along its
banks.
Early Mr. Whistler as a letter-writer became a personage to be
reckoned with. His pen was very frequently dipped in gall, but it is a
joy to read him for his very delightful, personal style. No one ever
wrote quite like him. Hamerton — ^with whom he had many passes,
always to the critic's great discomforture — once, in reviewing his
"Symphony in White,'' stupidly called attention to the fact that there
were many other tints in the picture besides white. There was, he main-
tained, the reddish hair of the woman, for instance, her flesh color, a
bit of blue ribbon and so on. Whistler responded : ^'Bon Dieu, did this
wise person expect white hair and chalked faces? And does he then, in
his astounding consequence, believe that a symphony in F contains no
other note, but shall be a continued repetition of F F F F? . . . .
Fool." And, of course, the world is familiar with Whistler's studied
insolence in his reply to a commimication to the New York Trib-
une by Hamerton, who complained that Whistler refused to answer
his letters. Whistler referred to the writer as *^a Mr. Hamerton,"
which made Hamerton perfectly furious and so served Whistler's
ends.
The book is copiously illustrated; indeed, there are some pictures
in it that might well have been left out, heresy as it is to his admirers .
to say so. Not all that Whistler did was pure gold by any means, though
Mr. Pennell refers to him as ''the greatest artist of his generation."
This statement, however, is open to discussion, though as an etcher that
palm may be freely awarded him. We learn much in the book of his
way of getting at the copper and his methods. The story of the famous
trial is told in detail, that affair when Whistler sued Buskin for dam-
ages and received from the jury — one farthing! It came about from
this paragraph in Buskin's publication, Fors Clavigera, "For Mr.
Whistler's own sake, no less than for the protection of the purchaser,
Sir Coutts Lindsay ought not to have admitted works into the gallery
in which the iU-educated conceit of the artist so nearly approaches the
aspect of wilful imposture. I have seen and heard much of cockney
impudence before now, but never expected to hear a coxcomb ask two
RICHARD MANSFIELD: THE MAN AND THE ACTOR 281
hundred guineas for flinging a pot of paint in the public's face/' The
picture referred to was "The Palling Bocket'* (Nocturne in Black and
Gold), and curiously enough, it is now owned in this city by Mrs. Samuel
TJntermeyer.
It is a delightful work the Pennells have given us and there cannot
be another so authoritative on the man. Their intimacy with him was
great, they have the literary instinct for just the right sort of material
that goes to the making up of the volumes, and their extensive acquaint-
ance with painters enabled them to secure memories of the man that were
not possible otherwise. To their requests many have responded, giving
valuable bits of intercourse, souvenirs, and such matter that is of the
liveliest entertainment. To the very end the authors hold one pro-
foundly interested and the books are put down with regret, for even the
stranger feels he has had the inestimable privilege of making the ac-
quaintance of a wit whose lightest utterance was worth the while, who
was doing something of value in the world, had, as it were, some excuse
for all his unconventionality.
Arthur Hoeber.
RICHARD MANSFIELD: THE MAN AND
THE ACTOR'
BY CLAYTON HAMILTON
The method of Mr. Paul Wilstach's biography of Eichard Mans-
field is consistently narrative throughout. The author never ventures
upon criticism, eitiier of Mansfield the actor or of Mansfield the man.
He limits his intention to that of "making a permanent record of the
events and achievements of Bichard Mansfield's life and of present-
ing through them the personal side of his large and complex character
as he revealed it to his intimates.'* In restricting thus the limits of
his labor, Mr. Wilstach exhibited both discretion and judicious taste, —
discretion, since the memory of this momentous actor is too recent for a
definitive criticism of his life-work to be at present possible, and judi-
cious taste, since Mr. Wilstach's long personal association with Mr. Mans-
field must necessarily have tended to unfit him for formulating a final
critical judgment of the man.
Since the book is not a study, but a piece of story-telling, it is for-
^Richard Mansfield: The Man and the Aotor. By Paul Wilstach. New York:
Charles Scribner's Sons. 1908.
282 ^™^ FORUM
tunate that the story which the author had to tell is rich in the essentialfl
of romance. There were no waste places or waiting periods in Mans-
field^s life: he was always doing something. He never loitered for things
to happen to him; he perpetually made things happen. His career, in
consequence, was at every point eventful. Reviewed in retrospect, it
almost has the look of being meant to be narrated. Mr. Wilstach sensed
this, and tactfully determined to let the story tell itself. With commend-
able simplicity, he set forth his material chronologically, without mak-
ing any attempt to marshal the events in accordance with an ulterior
intellectual design. In handling certain incidents, such as the famous
first performance of A Parisian Romance, the author displays an
engaging talent for direct, straightforward narrative. At times
he writes a little carelessly, and here and there a passage has the
tone of being a little more than journalism and less than literature;
but for the most part the story-telling is adequate to the story that
is told«
The book is, therefore, readable and interesting in every chapter.
At times, however, in following the account of the actor's failures and
successes, the reader regrets the author's deliberate avoidance of the
critical method. A record of an artist's achievement remains unsatisfy-
ing when it fails to reveal exactly what it was that the artist did achieve.
I find in my own case that Mr. Wilstach's narrative is satisfactory in
so far as it deals with any of the twenty different parts of which I remem-
ber Mansfield's presentation, but that it becomes unsatisfactory when-
ever it deals with the acting of a part I never saw. I infer from this
that a reader who had never seen Mansfield act at all would not be able
to imagine from the present account the aspect of his histrionic com-
positions; and when it is remembered that the American actor never
played in England after 1889, it will be seen that this lack of critical
exposition of his art must limit the usefulness of the book for an entire
great section of those readers who are interested in the English-speaking
stage. This limitation will become more regrettable as time advances
and the immediate memory of Mansfield's acting is lost. It is, for
instance, a matter for regret that Mr. Wilstach decided not to take
advantage of the few opportunities that were afforded him for measur-
ing Mansfield in comparison with his peers. For the most part Mans-
field created characters which were never played, before or since, by
anybody else; and the task of assigning his place in the history of acting
will therefore be exceedingly diflScult for future students of the stage.
But in Shylock and in Cyrano he invited comparison with two of his
greatest contemporaries; and in refusing to face the demand for comn
RICHAKD MANSFIELD: THE MAN AND THE ACTOR 283
parative criticism thus created, Mr. Wilstach disappoints us. It would
be impossible for a reader who had never seen Mansfield's Shylock to
deduce from Mr. Wilstach's narrative any critical reason for the prevalent
belief that it was inherently a lesser work of art than Sir Henry Irving's.
And surely a studious comparison of the performances of Mansfield and
Coqudin in Cyrano de Bergerac would have contributed a great deal to
the reader's understanding of the actor's art.
In representing Mansfield the man, Mr. Wilstach has attempted a
sound impartiality. His attitude is one of undisguised enthusiasm ; and
yet he lays considerable emphasis on those defects of Mansfield's tempera-
ment which made him the least loved of the great actors of his time.
These defects Mr. Wilstach now explains to the public very much as
Mansfield used to explain them to himself. To balance the scale, the
biographer gives glowing accounts of the actor's lavish benefactions and
kingly kindlinesses. Through all of this the author tells the truth and
nothing but the truth, but he does not succeed in telling the whole truth.
The reason, once again, is the absence of critical method. Mr. Wilstach
does not strike at the very soul and center of the man and create an
image so entire as to explain itself.
The nature of Mansfield was essentially imperial. He considered
life not as something to be loved or contemplated or enjoyed, but as
something to be conquered, ruled, commanded. He was always undis-
mayed by failure, because he lacked ability to imagine and to realize it»
He was bound to win ultimately, because he never knew when he was
beaten. A man of impulses and intuitions, capricious, unreasoning, im-
petuous, imprudent, prodigal, he escaped* chaos solely by holding his
attention fixed upon his star. He believed in his own destiny, and
thereby achieved renown.
An indomitable nature conquers admiration. Hats will evermore
be. tossed aloft when an emperor rides rough-shod over life. It is only
in calm, wise moments that we grow aware of the tragedy of kingship.
Mansfield knew how to command, but he never learned to serve. With
dauntless zest he flung himself at life; but seldom did he experience the
wonder of receiving life gently to his heart. His universe was him-
self ; he lacked ability to imagine others ; he missed the mystery of sym-
pathy. He could be kind and gracious, but only with an imperial ex-
cess; he was incapable of what Wordsworth has so sweetly phrased, —
those 'little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.'*
He was fascinating as a host, uncomfortable as a guest. Community
of spirit he could not understand. He was doomed to be admired or
disliked : it was scarcely possible to love him. How much of life he lost
284 THE FORUM
will be seen at once by comparing his experience with that of Joseph
Jefferson, whose life, as it is charmingly revealed in his autobiography,
was so much more richly human. Jefferson's progress was not blazoned
by a blare of imperial trumpets; but he was a man whom everybody
loved.
Clayton Hamilton,
MR. ALDEN AND THE NEW REALISM^
BY FREDERIC TABER COOPER
Mr. Alden's recent volume of essays, gathered together chiefly from
the "Editor's Study," in Harper's Magazine, is divided, as the title
implies, into two distinct groups, which, as it happens, are of very differ-
ent degrees of interest. The first group, which deals with the relation
of periodical to general literature, comprises a series of eleven papers,
ranging from an historical survey of "Early English Magazines" to a
discussion of such varied topics as "The Modem Writer's Prosperity,"
the comparative popularity of modern writers, and the special needs and
demands of "The American Audience." Genial and readable though
they are, and full of felicitous and suggestive slittle touches, the essays
of this first half, nevertheless, fail to stimulate discussion. They have
certain definite things to say; they succeed in saying them admirably,
and we either agree with them as we read, or else our disagreement is
along lines scarcely meriting to be dignified by serious discussion.
But turning to the second half of the book, dealing with what the
author has chosen to define as "The New Literature," we find, on the
contrary, many things that deserve to be examined in some detail ; because
while, on the one hand, they take an attitude unusually sane and stimu-
lating toward the whole present-day movement in literature, they present,
on the other hand, certain views with which it seems distinctly worth
while to take issue. In spite of the fact that in his introduction Mr. Alden
summarily dismisses, along with other worn-out formulas, "the fantastic
label of optimist," it is the pervading spirit of optimism that first im-
presses one in reading these essays — their unquenchable faith in the
onward and upward movement of letters and of life. ^TVithin the
memory of men, who have reached the age of fifty, the human spirit
has found its true centre of active development and interpretation, its
jeal modernity" — such is the keynote of the author's attitude toward the
^Magazine Writing and the "New Literature^ by Henry Mills Alden. New
York: Harper and Brothers.
MR. ALDEN AND THE NEW REALISM 285
people and the books of to-day. We have entered upon a ^^new psychical
era/' an era dominated by the ^^new realism," and it is only within the
present generation that "this quiet renascence/' this break between the
past and present, has reached its finality.
Now, there can be no question that in the main Mr. Alden's attitude
is distinctly salutary. It is a good thing to be reminded that, however
much we may reverence the past, there is no purpose in exalting it at the
expense of the present; that however high we may place Michelangelo
and Milton, a painting like "The Last Judgment," a poem like Paradise
Lost would to-day be an impossible achievement, because they were the
inevitable expression of a spirit that we cannot revive ; and that, though
"we may deliberately build a new cathedral, it is after all an anachron-
ism." These, and kindred products of by-gone eras, Mr. Alden reminds
us, "are far away from us, who are seeking to know what our world
really means for us in all its possibilities and what are the real values
of human existence." He insists, and rightly, that "whatever its heritage
of precious possessions, every age has its own work to do, creatively.
No new time can give us another Dante or Shakespeare, or even another
Scott." He believes, above all, that each epoch and each generation
should be true to itself, and get the most good out of the best that it
has been capable of producing. And while others, like Mr. Alfred Austin,
lament that the cultivated English audience of to-day is less intellectual
than that of Pope's time, Mr Alden boldly declares it a fortunate thing
"that we do not know Pope's Essay on Man by heart, or much give our
hearts to it anyway/' and adds his conviction that "the extensive apprecia-
tion of new novelists like Mrs. Humphry Ward and Maurice Hewlett
is a very satisfactory test of the intellectuality of our period."
Now, all this is eminently wholesome ; because one may say, without
fear of contradiction, that there is an ingrained and mistaken belief on the
part of a large majority of the reading public that when they are reading
books that have stood the test of two or three generations they are reading
literature, while if the title-page bears the date of the current year,
they are not; that if they are spending an hour or two over Scott or
Dickens, they are improving their minds, while if they are reading even
the very best that the younger generation of novelists has to offer, they
are at most indulging in an excusable relaxation. This view, of course,
is arrant nonsense. The only valid argument to be offered in favor
of those who prefer to limit their reading to books published prior to
the nineteenth or the eighteenth or the seventeenth century is that the
further back you go, the more effectually has time served the purpose of
winnowing out the trash, and the leiss danger there is of mistakes on
286 THE FORUM
the part of the reader who cannot or will not judge for himself. The
critical mind, of course, is a gift not given impartially to every one;
but worse than the blunder of misplaced enthusiasms is that self -distrust
in one's literary judgment which results in a habit of depreciation, border-
ing on contempt, towards practically all authors whom authoritative
criticism has not definitely and conveniently labeled ''Classic/' There-
fore, for his fearless and emphatic encomium upon the New Literature,
Mr. Alden's volume is entitled to cordial recognition as serving a high
purpose in the cause of letters.
But let us examine a little further into what Mr. Alden regards as
the distinctive qualities of this New Literature; what he thinks are the
main tendencies of the current movement; whom he looks upon as the
torch bearers of the present generation. When we come to details like
these, the answers are not altogether easy to summarize. ''Every age has
its own work to do creatively .'* That, as already said, is his starting
point. No generation can or should reduplicate the artistic forms and
ideals of the generation before it. To this extent it is quite easy to find
one's self in accord with Mr. Alden. But his reason for insisting on the
necessity of this constant movement in the form and the aim of art is
based upon his belief in the constant and radical changes in human
nature. Flatly contradicting the widely accepted view of the everlasting
sameness of human nature, "not merely in its constituent elements, but
in its motives, impulses, and sense of life,'' Mr. Alden finds a series of
marvelous and sweeping changes, which result, if we pass from Sophocles
and Phidias to Dante and Michelangelo, in what is practically "a new
human nature" ; he tells us that "passing from Da^te to Wordsworth the
psychical transformation is still more wonderful ;" and that at present we
are living in a time when "a decade stands for an epoch in psychical evolu-
tion." The particular feature of this modern psychical evolution which bears
directly upon the younger literature, Mr. Alden defines as a new "sensi-
bility to reality" — ^by which term he means that demand which has
become general on the part of the public for a closer conformity to the
actualities of life on the part of the makers of creative literature; a
steady tendency in the direction of realism — ^to use the word in its
current sense — as regards details of setting, naturalness of colloquial
speech, subtle truth of psychological interpretation — and that, too, quite
regardless of whether the book as a whole is to be classed as realistic or
romantic. It is because human nature has changed, Mr. Alden argues,
because the individual man and woman knows vastly more about material
things and things of the spirit than the men and women of a century ago,
and what is more, knows them quite differently, that the novel of to-day is
MR. ALDEN AND THE NEW REALISM 287
radically different from the novels of Defoe and Smollett, Richardson and
Fielding — that in substance is Mr. Alden's chief claim. And that
is where one feels inclined rather emphatically to take issue with him.
To confine the discussion to fiction, which is after all what Mr. Alden
mainly has in mind whenever he talks of the New Realism, there is
another factor quite as potent as any change of human nature could be,
— namely, the improved technique of the modem novel. Mr. Alden, to
be sure, does not wholly overlook the fact that there has been a gain
in technique. Indeed, he is careful to say that there have been radical
changes and great improvements in the whole conception both of the
novel and short story as artistic forms. What he fails to feel is, that it
is the modem understanding of technique which makes the vital differ-
ence between the successive stages of development in the English novel.
The aim of the novelist has always been to tell the truth as nearly as his
mind can conceive it and his mastery of pen strokes and verbal color can
reproduce it. The crude forms of archaic statues, the faulty drawing of
primitive Italian frescoes do not mean that those pioneer artists saw less
truly the world about them than Phidias and Praxiteles, Raphael and
Leonardo. But they do mean that technique still has some mighty
strides to make. And when we compare a novel by Fielding with one
by, let us say, Henry James (rather than follow Mr. Alden in his un-
fortunate choice of that greatly overrated writer, Mrs. Humphry Ward),
the "vast difference" which our critic finds equally in the "superficial
portraiture" and the ^Tiidden meanings of life" is mainly explicable on
the grounds of method — and that, too, after we have fully granted Field-
ing^s psychological limitations and Mr. Henry James's marvelous and
unequaled insight. Tom Jones, whether you rank it as a great book
or not; whether you are carried along by the bold, frank, virile humor
of it or repelled by its Rabelaisian coarseness, is not merely on a different
but on a very much lower plane than, let us say. The Ambassadors — ^not
because the world knew less a hundred years ago than it does to-day, but
because, measured by modern standards, Tom Jones is a crude, amor-
phous, attempt, the expression of an art that has not yet thrown off
the throttling hold of the picaresco school; while any one of Henry
James's masterpieces shows the infinite care, the perfect polish, the
supreme development of an art that has found itself.
It is this simple fact of the all-importance of form in the best of
our modern fiction which explains one thing that seems especially to
puzzle Mr. Alden — ^namely, that so many of our best writers seem to
eschew popularity. It is a tmism, but none the less regrettable, that the
general public is not keenly interested in the highest developments of
288 THE FORUM
artistic form. They would rather read Mr. Hall Caine or Mr. George
Barr McCutcheon than either Mr. Meredith or Mr. Hardy; and even
a more limited and discerning public prefer Mrs. Humphry Ward or
Mr. Eobert Hichens to the finer work of Maurice Hewlett and of Joseph
Conrad. It is because our younger writers of to-day have many of them
learned their technique well, that they find if they will live up to their
ideals they must perforce sacrifice a widespread popularity.
Let us, by all means, join with Mr. Alden in hailing the New Eealism
confidently, gladly, even enthusiastically, for there have been better
novels written in the last decade than in any previous epoch of English
literature. But let us make no mistake regarding the grounds of our
admiration, remembering that when a standard of artistic excellence
has once been set we have no right to debase it by extolling that which
falls short of the best. Let us feel quite confident that there are a few
writers to-day who in spite of Mr. Alden^s insistence on the growing
tendency toward evanescence are likely to survive — ^writers like Kipling
and Hewlett and Joseph Conrad, Kenneth Graham and Alfred OUivant
— ^long after other writers whom Mr. Alden seems to admire to an equal
degree shall have been forgotten.
Frederic Taber Cooper.
KEATS
BY ELSA BARKER
Hyperion of poets — shining one !
To thy pavilion in the realm of air
Can my souFs incense rise? Art thou aware
Thy name in every singer's orison
Is writ in stars, not water ? Has there none
Of all earth's dying dreamers scaled the stair
Of light after thee, breathless to declare
Even to thy face thy fame beneath the sun ?
But maybe in the region where thou art,
No rumor of the world or the world's ways
Can ever come. Thy dreams are now a part
Of God's own vision, and thy deathless lays
Signed by His name. Beholding Him, thy heart
Is all oblivious of human praise.
Elsa Barker.
The FSrum
APRIL, 1909
PllESIDENT TAFT AND THE SOUTH
BY HENRY LITCHFIELD WEST
Fob forty years the South has been politically solid. It has faith-
fully and even blindly supported the national nominees pf the Demo-
cratic pariy^ giving its electoral vote in many instances to men who
were repudiated in the very States which claimed them as favorite sons.
Is the time near at hand when this political solidity is to be disturbed?
Will the Southern States experience regeneration?
There is already disintegration along the edges of the South.
Maryland and West Virginia^ once doubtful^ have passed into the
category of almost certain Eepublican States, while
Mr. Taft's Kentucky, Missouri and Tennessee occasionally waver
Interest in in their allegiance to the Democratic party. In the
the South heart of the section, as in Georgia, there is a very
apparent growth of Sepublicanism ; and even in
Alabama and Texas ostracism does not follow abandonment of the
Democratic faith as it did in years gone by. It is more than possible
that in the next four years the country will witness something like a
radical departure of the South from its old traditions. To induce
the South to break away from these ancient moorings is the task
to which President Taft is devoting himself, and if he shall accom-
plish his desire he may well regard the result as the climax of his
administration.
Nearly three years have elapsed since Mr. Taft first gave evidence
of his sincere interest in conditions in the South. While still Secretary
of War he made a journey to the thriving town of Greensboro, North
Carolina, for the purpose of telling the Southern people that he thought
Pmmstion to repubUsh artidei i$ reserved
290 THE FOKUM
the time had come when^ for their own interest, they should exerdse
political independence. "I believe that nothing that could happen in
the politics of this country/' he said, *Vould work greater advantage to
the country at large, and to the South in particular, than the breaking
up of what has been properly known as the Solid South.'* No one will
question Mr. Taffs assertion that this declaration was not inspired by
a partisan spirit. He doubts, in fact, whether the Bepublican party
would profit, in the long run, by the addition of Southern electoral
votes to its column, inasmuch as independence in the South might easily
lead into the Democratic party many Northern voters who are now
Bepublicans because they resent ^'the injustice and danger of Southern
political conditions.'' Since this Greensboro speech Mr. Taft has ad-
dressed himself with effective frequency to similar discussions, not even
omitting the subject in his inaugural speech. He has met with Southern
men on every possible occasion; and when resting from the arduous
labors of his campaign he went into the South with the feeling that he
was a welcome visitor. The sincere hospitality extended to him was
ample manifestation of the fact that he had won the hearts of his
fellow-countrymen in the South, even if their political allegiance had
not been secured.
It is peculiarly fortunate that at the present time President Taft
and the South entertain these reciprocal sentiments of regard, because
the Southern States are now, more than ever before.
The South awakened to a thorough appreciation of their great
Needs possibilities in the matter of material development.
Taft's Aid They suffered long under adverse conditions. The
period immediately succeeding the Civil War, when
recuperation demanded, and should have enjoyed, the most favorable
circumstances was, unfortunately, characterized by political conditions
which retarded progress and especially proved an obstacle to needed
immigration. A better feeling eventually prevailed, but the South was
still hampered in its progress by the recurrence of fever in the Gulf
States and by the inadequacy of its transportation facilities. Much that
was uttered against the South was pure misrepresentation, but there was
enough of truth in the assertions to give the semblance of actuality to
every statement. Now, however, the dreaded yellow fever has practically
disappeared, and the reports of the federal health bureau show that
the climatic conditions by no means warrant the characterization of the
South as an unhealthy section. On the contrary. Dr. Walter Wyman,
the Surgeon-General of the Public Health and Marine Hospital Bureau,
PRESIDENT TAFT AND THE SOUTH 291
is authority for the statement that the freedom from cold winters is
one of the privileges of the South, that the absence of extreme tem-
peratures is a blessing, and that the open air life which the balmy
character of the Southern section invites is a most desirable aid to
longevity.
It is true, however, that the railroad facilities of the South are not
sufficiently developed. The fact is that there are more miles of third
and fourth tracks in the North and Middle West than there are miles
of double track in the entire country south of the Ohio and Potomac
rivers and east of the Mississippi. For this condition, however, the
South itself is largely responsible. It is a condition which is not entirely
economic, but, in a great measure, political. The sweep of Populism
through the South some years ago, followed by the declarations in the
Democratic national platforms and by Democratic leaders, resulted in a
spirit of antagonism to the railroad interests, and this hostility found
expression in adverse legislation. The railroads in the South were, even
under most careful management, restricted to a narrow margin of profit;
and, in many instances, this slight return was still further decreased by
the application of net earnings to the purchase of additional rolling
stock, the improvement of the road beds and the enlargement of terminal
facilities. State laws, however, reduced the passenger receipts, and
other phases of hostility created such resentment on the part of the
railroads that contemplated enterprises were indefinitely postponed and
improvements under way were abandoned. In addition to this, the fact
that capital was liable to be placed in jeopardy at any moment chilled
the enthusiasm of investors and halted the progress which the South
was enjoying. President Finley, of the Southern Bailway, than whom
there is no more able or thoughtful executive, has done much to bring
the South into a realization of the fact that if that section is to prosper
it must encourage rather than hinder the work which the railroad cor-
porations are doing.
There ia every reason to believe that President Taft will, more than
any of his predecessors, assist in promoting the objects which have called
the Southern Commercial Congress into being. This organization, which
had its birth in Chattanooga last August, has already purchased an
admirable site in the national capital upon which it proposes to erect
a building devoted to exploiting the resources and attractions of the
South. Its proposed attainments are thus epigrammatically set forth :
To produce throughout the South a greater self-knowledge.
To free the mind of the world from misapprehension regarding the South.
To inform by authoritative utterances regarding the possessions of the South.
THE FOBUM
To bring men together in the language of commerce, which is the language
of peace.
To show the importance of conserving rather than wasting; of using yet not
abusing.
The programme thus briefly outlined is most compiehensiye, and
Washington is the ideal place for its successful execution. The Geologi-
cal Survey will supply the data relative to mineral resources; the
weather bureau will afford statistics regarding climatic conditions; the
federal health bureau will furnish the figures which demonstrate a low
mortality; the census office can give details of population and immigra-
tion, together with the results achieved in the line of agricultural and
manufacturing industries; and^ finally, the ambassadors and foreign
ministers can be made effective agents in giving world-wide publicity to
the information thus obtained. Most of all, a sympathetic President
in the White House can effectively aid in the desired development by
his appreciation of the conditions which prevail in that section and by
placing the material interests of the South above partisan political
considerations. The attitude of the President is thus a matter of
national concern.
Some indication of Mr. Taft's purpose was afforded when, during
the campaign, he undertook, through his chief lieutenant, Mr. Hitch-
cock, to deal with a new element in the South. For
Pn^^ many years the Eepublican party in the South had
Friction been a by-word and a reproach. It consisted mainly
Avoided of a few men who seemed to be Bepublicans for revenue
only. They regarded federal offices as proper objects
for barter and gain, and were faithful to the Bepublican organization
because of the personal aggrandizement which resulted. There were
some notable and praiseworthy exceptions to this rule, but they con-
stituted a lonely minority. As far as possible, Mr. Taft ignored these
professional politicians and allied himself with men who were Bepub-
lican through principle and whose espousal of the Eepublican cause gave
standing to the party in the communities where they resided. The
wisdom of his action has been fully demonstrated. He has made the
Republican party respectable in the South. He has infused genuine
life into a perfimctory organization. He has convinced the South that
intelligence and honesty and character stand higher in his regard than
mere political control. To any one unacquainted with the conditions
which have existed in the South during the past two decades it is
difficult to convey an adequate conception of the transformation which
PRESIDENT TAFT AND THE SOUTH 293
has beea accomplished. It means that Mr. Taft has advanced in tre-
mendous degree the likelihood of a rift in the hitherto unbreakable
solidity of the South.
Most notable, as an evidence of the new era, is the change in the
coUectorship of the port of Charleston, South Carolina. With per-
sistency characteristic, Mr. Boosevelt nominated and renominated
Dr. William D. Crum, a negro, for that position. The appoint-
ment was universally unpopular, and the protests of the South Carolina
senators prevented confirmation. It being evident that President Taft
did not intend to retain Dr. Crum in office, the resignation of that
official was tendered, and Mr. Edward W. Durant, Jr., has been nomi-
nated. Mr. Durant, although a Bepublican all of his life, is the son of
a Minnesota man who was a Democrat until he left the Democratic party
because he could not support Mr. Bryan. He has been a resident of
Charleston for only seven years. Although he is a Northerner and a Be-
publican, Mr. Durant's selection is thoroughly acceptable to the people of
Charleston, irrespective of party affiliation, because he is identified
with the business interests of the city and because he is known to
be capable. The South Carolina senators promptly acceded
to the confirmation of the new appointee, and the collector of the
port of Charleston will, as long as Mr. Taft is President, not only
be an official whose incumbency will reflect credit upon the city,
but he will be able to conduct without friction the business of his
office.
Some years ago the collector of the port of Wilmington, North
Carolina, was a negro. There was not only constant irritation between
him and those having business relations with his office, but in every
social fimction — and hospitable entertainment of marine visitors is a
feature of Southern ports — ^he was studiously ignored. Similar condi-
tions have prevailed in Charleston. It is due to Mr. Taft that in the
latter city, at least, they have become a thing of the past. It may be
that, when it comes to casting their votes, the Southern Democrats will
still be Democrats, but certainly the edge of their bitterness toward
Bepublican administration will have been dulled. They must appre-
ciate the fact that President Taft has no desire deliberately to create
friction nor to invite an unpleasant situation. They must feel that he
is not deaf to their appeals, and that, even at the risk of losing pres-
tige with a numerous contingent of his party, he does not intend to
impose unpleasant conditions upon the business element in the South;
and this element, daily growing larger and more influential, will nat-
urally regard him with a spirit of gratitude.
294: THE FORUM
It is safe to say that the entire negro race has witnessed the incom-
ing of President Taft with feelings of the liveliest curiosity. The
colored people never knew exactly where President
Mr. Taft Eoosevelt stood. At one moment they applauded him
and the most heartily and at the next instant they were con-
Negro demning him in violent terms. His attitude was con-
stantly contradictory. Professor Kelly Miller, the ablest
member of the faculty of Howard University, once summed up Mr.
Roosevelt's conflicting actions in interesting fashion. He pointed out
that Mr. Eoosevelt, as civil service commissioner, had manfully resisted
the dismissal of colored employees of the Government when a Democratic
administration came into power, and yet, as Governor of New York, had
delivered a most perfunctory address upon Frederick Douglass; while
as historian of the battle of San Juan he had withheld from the negro
troops the praise which was their rightful due. As President he had
lunched familiarly with Booker T. Washington; and yet, in a message
to Congress, had *'set forth and embalmed in an oflBcial document and
held up to the gaze of all the world" the 'lecherous tendency of the
negro race.'* He had appointed Dr. Crum to be collector of the port
of Charleston, and had sustained him in that position despite a storm
of protest; and yet, by an order which might well be regarded as arbi-
trary if not illegal, he had summarily consigned to everlasting disgrace
several companies of a colored regiment stationed at Brownsville, with-
out affording the men an opportunity to prove their innocence.
After this experience, and especially in view of President Taft's
promptness in deposing Dr. Crum, it can well be understood that the
negro race, not only in the South, but throughout the nation, is eagerly
awaiting further developments. There are three great problems in this
country — ^the control of monopolistic corporations, the relations of labor
and capital, and the future of the negro. The first two are economic
and can be adjusted without passion; the last is racial and sociological,
and its solution will require the exercise of the wisest statesmanship for
many years to come. In his personal concern for the advancement of
the South, President Taft must necessarily come face to face with the
negro problem. He has already marked out with some clearness the
course which he intends to pursue. He is not in favor of universal
suffrage for the negro, provided the ignorant and irresponsible of the
white race are also denied the privilege of voting. He holds that when
the laws of the Southern States are not at variance with the Constitu-
tion, it is not the disposition or within the province of the Federal
Government to interfere with the domestic affairs of the South. He
PRESIDENT TAFT AND THE SOUTH 295
believes that the appointment of negroes to oflBce is an encouragement
and an appreciation of the progress of the race, *Tt)ut it may well admit
of doubt/^ he adds, "whether, in the case of any race, an appointment
of one of their number to a local oflBce, in which the race feeling is so
widespread and acute as to interfere with the ease and facility with
which the local government business can be done by the appointee, is
of suflBcient benefit by way of encouragement to the race to outweigh
the recurrence and increase of race feeling which such an appointment
is likely to engender." He would solve the negro question by appealing
to the South to insure the industrial and intellectual advancement of
the race. He regards it as certain that when a colored man has acquired
property, thus making himself sensitive to the burden of taxation and
quickening his interest in honest economical government, and when he
has reached a status of recognized intelligence, his exercise of the ballot
will not be seriously contested.
It is hardly likely that the negro problem will be finally settled
during Mr. Taft*s administration, and yet it is within the power of the
President materially and even mightily to advance its solution. He is
a friend of the negro— a wise and sympathetic friend, who sees the
shortcomings of the black man and yet is thoroughly alive to the
potentialities of the race. He is peculiarly fitted to assist the negro
because of his friendly relations with the South, where the negro is an
important factor. The South will listen to Mr. Taft; and when the
latter insists, as he does, that the negro shall be dealt with according
to law and not upon the basis of traditional prejudice, there is reason
to hope that his words will be effective. There is no question that the
salvation of the colored race in the South lies in its increased financial
and educational standing. There are innumerable examples of negroes
in the South who not only are living in peace, but have won the respect
of the white population because they have cultivated habits of thrift and
industry. The colored farmer in the South — and in Governor Varda-
man's State nearly three-fifths of the farms are directed by black pro-
prietors— ^receives as much for his cotton as the white planter. The labor
which the negro contributes toward the production of wealth is mate-
rially aiding in the development of the South'a resources, and it is but
fair that a proportionate amount of this wealth should go toward the
education of the colored race. Unfortunately, this is not the case.
Larger opportunity should also be given to the negroes to become
skilled laborers, the results at Tuskegee demonstrating that they can
acquire the knowledge which will make them proficient in even the
higher branches of mechanical industry.
296 '^^^^ FORUM
President McKinley died happily in the conviction that under his
administration the last vestige of sectionalism had disappeared. Presi-
dent Taft can go still further. He can help the South in her effort
toward that material development which her fertile soil, her forests,
her mines, her splendid sea-coast harbors and her internal waterways
so abundantly prophesy. He can treat her people with genuine con-
sideration; he can respect their traditions, even though he may not
adopt them; and he can dispassionately and wisely influence both the
negro race and its white environment mutually to advance each other^s
interests. All this can be accomplished without raising the spectre of
social equality — a phrase that has done more toward preventing har-
monious relation between the races in the South than any other two
words in the English language. President Taft, in all his utterances,
has carefully avoided reference to this disturbing element. Evidently
he does not regard it as a possibility, much less as a serious menace. He
wants the South to prosper and the negro to advance, and he believes
that these desiderata are linked together. It is happily within his
power — as it seems to be within his ambition — ^to achieve both desirable
results. Henry Litchfield West.
THE VAGABOND
BY WILLIAM BLLERY LBONABD
Around the world I\e been in many a guise,
In cape, or furs, or oilskin, fronting Fate;
Down rainy seas, through many a stormy strait.
By upland forests, over hills that rise
White, green, or crimson in the season skies;
Through civic arch and eagle-crested gate.
Imperial boulevards and halls of state;
And asked for Fame — and failed of every prize.
Except, except the experienced eye and free,
And these impregnable old sides of mirth ;
Except, except a glorious wisdom, worth
All the poor scorn these tatters bring to me:
Some feeling for the massy bulk of earth.
Some still monitions of mortality.
William Ellery Leonard.
THE TURN IN THE FINANCIAL SITUATION
BY ALEXANDER D. NOTES
In concluding, in the January number of The Forum, the review
of the extraordinary "after-election boom^^ on the Stock Exchange and
in general trade, I pointy out the extent to which markets and mer-
chants alike had been influenced by the complete illusion regarding the /
actual facts of the industrial situation. The exact situation which then
existed, and which was completely ignored in the excitement of the day,
need not be here described again; it is necessary, however, to keep it
in mind, because the industrial and financial history of the past three
months has been made up almost entirely of the removal of these illu-
sions from the minds of the public at large and the return to sober
consideration of actual facts. The violence with which the markets and
the people have had their eyes opened, and the suddenness with which
the process of disillusionment has come on the community at large, have
at times imparted to the events of the past three months an exciting and
even sensational character. Looked upon as a whole, it will readily be
concluded that this was an inevitable sequel to the curious mental atti-
tude maintained by the financial world, particularly during 1908. To
what extent the process of readjustment has been thorough and con-
clusive, we shall find in the course of our narrative.
It is a fact, to which allusion has frequently been made in the columns
of this magazine, that the opening of a new calendar year does not
necessarily mean the opening of a new financial year. Influences which
prevail. on industrial and financial markets during December are very
apt, under ordinary circumstances, to prevail during January also, and
for some time afterward. As a rule, the new events which shape the
financial future, and which give distinct and definite character to a
period, occur in April, when the condition of the crops makes itself
known, or in July, when the harvest is made or marred, or in September,
when the autunm test of the money markets' requirements and resources
is applied to the situation.
In 1908, for instance, it was not imtil April that the actual character
of the financial year disclosed itself; it was then that people watching
the Stock Exchange, particularly, were able to learn of the extent to
which the notion that all the after-panic effects were over, and that the
boom of 1906 was about to begin again, had seized on the mind of the
community. Similarly, in 1907, it was not imtil March, when what is
still called the ''rich men's liquidation" demoralized all financial mar-
298 ^^^ FORUM
kets, that observant people were able to see the way the wind was blow-
ing. Many experienced observers then made up their minds as to what
we had in store for us in the autumn. The character of the financial
year 1906 was by no means plain imtil August, when, after a rather
prolonged period of hesitation, the furious stock speculation for the rise
was started by Union Pacific's increase in its dividend. Finally, it
would be impossible to determine what was the typical character,
financially speaking, of 1905 if one were to review the events of the
first half of the year. It was not until September that the double in-
fluence of an enormous demand for capital all over the world, and of
steadily impaired capital resources, came distinctly into view.
It was reasonable, therefore, that people should have expected at the
opening of the present year a continuance of the general trend of things
which prevailed in 1908, or, at any rate, a period of
The Turn hesitation before the new order of things should develop
in the itself. Precisely the contrary has happened. The new
Situation characteristics of the financial year 1909 were disclosed
almost immediately with the beginning of the calendar
year, and the three months' history which I now have to review is of a
totally different character from that of the preceding quarter.
As to why this should have been so, the answer probably lies in the
abnormal character of the events of 1908 itself. Based, as the financial
operations of the year imquestionably were, on complete illusion regard-
ing the real industrial situation, they moved with increasing rapidity
in the direction in which the misunderstanding of events had started
them. The election of Mr. Taft had given the final stimulus to this
singular mental attitude; the public itself had gone wild after the
returns of November 4th, and even when the public had abandoned the
stock market, professional operators had continued their manipula-
tion on a scale of daring and magnitude almost parallel to that of 1906.
But the very violence of this movement at the close of 1908 made it
inevitable that the artificial impetus should exhaust itself and that
reaction should be prompt. It was perhaps an accident that this reac-
tion should have come at the opening of the new year; had it not been
for the fact that the November election hastened the culmination of the
ill-grounded speculative movement, it is quite possible that the illusions
might have been prolonged into 1909.
As it was, the process of disillusionment was prompt. For one
thing, real facts which could not be ignored began to make their appear-
ance shortly after the opening of January. To mention the less impor-
THE TURN IN THE FINANCIAL SITUATION 299
tant^ there were our waning export trade^ the continued deficit in the
Treasury, and the wavering of the copper market, which financial in-
terests had watched very keenly, because the upward or downward move-
ment in that commodity had for a year or more foreshadowed the course
of financial speculation.
Far more important than any of these considerations, however, was
what came to light in the steel trade. Of what was actually done in
coimection with the industry, I shall speak in more detail later on. The
point to notice, in explaining why sentiment changed so rapidly at the
opening of the year, is that the data which then came to light put the
final seal of proof on the assertion that the after-election boom had no
logical basis in improving trade conditions. Even people who were in
no sympathy with the excesses of that after-election movement were
impressed by the constant and reiterated news of the starting up of
new mills and the inrush of new orders. This was especially the case
in the steel and iron trades, and it led to a very general and not unrea-
sonable belief that volume of business in the industry, and earnings of
the great Steel Corporation, would, at all events, show up handsomely
for the two months after election. Toward the end of January the
Steel Corporation published its quarterly report, with the monthly net
earnings for the closing quarter of the year. Taken as a whole, net
earnings for the quarter were 3 per cent, less than in the quarter ending
September 30th; 19^ per cent, less than in the fourth quarter in 1907,
and 37 per cent, less than in the three closing months of 1906. They
were, in fact, the smallest since the December quarter of 1904. But
this was not all. When the Steel Corporation's net earnings for the
three months — October, November, and December — ^were scrutinized, the
surprising fact was disclosed that earnings in November were $650,000
smaller than in October, and that in December they were $700,000
smaller than in November.
In other words, so far from it being true that the two months after
election had been marked by vigorous increase in business and in profits,
there had been a more rapid shrinkage in both than
had occurred at any time since the early part of 1908.
111**^" ^^^^ These somewhat surprising facts, being matters of
public record, had an inevitable effect on sentiment,
and were perhaps the immediate cause of the breaking
of the long illusion. But there can be no doubt that larger causes were
at work. To any one who surveys the history of the period following
previous great financial panics it will be plain that the slowness of
300 ^^^^^ FORUM
realizing what the after-effects must be has been a striking incident in
all of them. It is not true^ as is perhaps commonly supposed^ that after
a serious financial disaster of the sort^ the financial and commercial mar-
kets fall at once into stagnation^ despondency, and decline. On the con-
trary, almost all experience goes to show that during the year or more
following the panic shock itself, there exists an obstinate optimism that
refuses to recognize that such after-effects must occur at all.
Let us take, for instance, the period following 1873, of which the
public idea has usually been that the panic marked the country's imme-
diate entry into a prolonged and unbroken period of industrial and
financial stagnation. Nothing of the kind was true. The year 1874
itself was marked by frequent spells of vigorous reviyal, all of them char-
acterized by confident assertion that the iU effects of the panic had at last
spent themselves. There was less talk, doubtless, of resuming the pre-
vious boom than there was in 1908, but all the financial reviews of the
period reflected the recurrent feeling that great prosperity had by no
means departed from the United States. In September, 1874, there
occurred what was described at the time as a genuine boom, both in
business and on the Stock Exchange. With the end of the year, this
movement also ended. The Financial Chronicle, writing, in January,
1875, its review of 1874, remarked that the bright hopes which had
repeatedly been cherished of revival in trade and industry had been
lamentably disappointed.
To come down to more recent history, one may inquire what hap-
pened in the aftermath of the panic of 1893. Early in 1894, even in
the face of the tariff reduction plan, there was a brief, but rather sub-
stantial, revival of industry. How far this revival would have gone
under ordinary circumstances, and to what extent the history of 1908
might thereby have been anticipated, is a matter of pure conjecture. By
the middle of the year, markets and industries were alike confronted by
the disastrous failure of the com crop, by the collapse of the Treasury
gold reserve — ^a result of the public deficit; by the consequent imminent
danger of a lapse to the silver standard, and by a labor demonstration
which reached, in the middle of July, to the proportions of industrial
revolution. Naturally, aU this checked the spirit of optimism; yet,
when these unfavorable influences had spent their force, and when the
Treasury had been protected through loans on the domestic market and
through a contract with a foreign syndicate, the same premature revival
as had been witnessed in 1874, and as was destined to be witnessed in
1908, occurred. In 1895 iron was marked up in less than six months
from $9 to $12, the rate of production meantime increasing 40 per cent.
THE TURN IN THE FINANCIAL SITUATION 301
There did^ in fact, oocur an actual trade boom which was more real in
character and longer in duration of time than anything of the sort
which happened in 1908. Yet of 1895, as of 1908 and 1874, it
must be said that the movement of expansion and speculation was based
on entirely premature ideas regarding actual recovery from the panic.
Precisely as the optimism of 1874 was destined to disappear in the hard
times of 1875 and 1876, so the exaggerated and premature boom of
1895 left the country's industrial position wholly abnormal, our foreign
trade disorganized, our merchants' shelves loaded with goods for which
they could not find a market; and it thereby led the way, directly and
inevitably, to the very distressing times of 1896.
If one is to draw comparisons between these after-panic episodes, it
will have to be admitted that the period following the panic of 1907
resembles more closely that which followed 1873 than that which fol-
lowed 1893 — ^not less in that the premature expectations came in the
very year after the panic shock. Perhaps it is natural that the resem-
blance should run closely to the older year, because we are coming
nowadays to learn more clearly that the panic of 1907 itself was a
counterpart, not of 1893, but of 1873. Preceded as it was by immense
prosperity, by gigantic speculation, by enormous strain on capital, and
eventually by a breakdown of credit — all of which occurred in 1873,
none in 1893 — the analogies between the panic of a year and a half
ago and that of thirty-six years ago are extraordinarily close. It does
not prove that the history of the after-panic period as a whole must
parallel that of the epoch which followed 1873. It is impossible that
the story should be the same — ^if for no other reason than for the reason
that prosperity in our Western districts not only shows no signs of
diminishing, as it did with great rapidity after 1873, but is actually
increasing month by month, and is probably greater at the present time
than it was on the eve of the panic of 1907. Nevertheless, the analogy
is close enough to repay careful study of what happened.
All financial markets up to the very closing of December were in an
excited and highly stimulated condition; it naturally followed that
when the process of disillusionment began they would
have to go down, and this is what happened very
• St 'k promptly. Some tangible provoking cause is usually
necessary for a movement of this sort, and in the
present case this requirement was supplied by a de-
cision of the United States Supreme Court. The New York Legislature
had by law lowered the price of gas in New York City from $1 per
302 THE FORUM
thousand cubic feet to eighty cents; the reduction had been contested
by the company on constitutional grounds, and the suit had been carried
to the highest Federal Court. Pending that appeal, the one-dollar rate
was exacted, but the disputed twenty cents per thousand feet had been
placed in the hands of trustees, to be held for the benefit of the com-
pany if the Court should rule in its favor, and for the benefit of con-
sumers if the law should be uphdd.
On Januaiy 4th the Supreme Court upheld the law, and Consolidated
Gas stock, which had been raised 40 per cent in the last month of 1908
on the happy-go-lucky theory that the Court would certainly rule in the
company^s favor, broke with extreme violence. With it the general
market broke, and this led many people hastily to infer that the whole
reaction was the result of the Supreme Court's attitude. How little
cause there was for such an inference was very soon made manifest.
During several weeks a singular situation had existed in the steel
trade. Beaders of The Forum will recall that when, in the early months
of 1908, strong pressure was brought to bear, on the
War of Steel Trust particularly, for a large reduction of prices
Prices in in deference to the reduced consumption and the im-
Steel Trade paired resources of consumers, the chairman of the
Steel Corporation had replied that ^'the fact that the
demand is less than the supply does not furnish an argument for lower-
ing the price''; that ^^in neither case would the quantity bought and
sold be more or less," and that on those grounds he had opposed all
reduction in the price of steel. A little while afterward, on an insistent
demand of independent producers, a slight cut from $28 to $25 per ton
had been made in one class of steel, but it had been almost unanimously
recognized in the trade that this did not meet the situation. In the
first place, it was pointed out that even after this slight reduction prices
for steel were being maintained on the basis of the boom times. It was
pointed out in Pittsburg that, despite that small revision, steel billets
were $5.50 higher than in 1904, and $10.50 higher than in 1898; that
plates were $2.70 and $10.00 higher, respectively, than in the same two
years, and that even iron was $4.40 above the low price of 1904.
In other words, the steel business was dependent on recovery in com-
mercial activity on the part of a paralyzed and hard-pressed community,
with consumption scarcely 60 per cent, of normal, and with the con-
suming public's economies rigidly enforced, and yet was expecting this
weakened customer to pay such prices as had been exacted from it in
years like 1906 and 1905. The policy was paradoxical. To argue, as
THE TURN IN THE FINANCIAL SITUATION 303
the head of the Steel Trust did, that his company had not exacted in
1906 as high prices as it might have done, and that therefore it was
entitled to refuse extreme concessions now, did not meet the case at all.
It was, no doubt, sufiScient answer to such people as might have asked
that steel prices be cut instantly in two, as happened after most of our
former panics; but it certainly provided insuflBcient ground for main-
tenance of such prices as these.
Furthermore, the position of the independent steel manufacturers
was becoming somewhat desperate. One of the largest of these inde-
pendent companies reported later that in 1908 gross ' earnings had de-
creased no less than 54 per cent, from the preceding year, and that its
$2,M3,000 surplus of 1907 had been turned into a deficit of $1,326,000
in 1908. The Steel Trust itself had suffered during 1908 a decrease of
35 per cent, in gross earnings, as compared with 1907 ; but it had still
earned a considerable surplus over the dividend on its common stock,
and this, along with its great accumulated resources, made it possible
for the big corporation to stand against difficulties which threatened to
overwhelm its smaller competitors. At all events, it seems that these
independent steel makers, whose production constitutes between 30 and
40 per cent, of the output of the trade, made up their minds that in the
existing situation they must at all events get business on what terms
they could.
Secret cutting of prices by these independent companies began on a
considerable scale with the opening of January. Its existence was
denied in many steel trade circles, and to a large extent it is possible
that its real significance was ignored. Finally, however, the actual facts
of the situation thrust themselves forward with such striking emphasis
that they could no longer be overlooked. The most conservative trade
organs began to talk out with much unusual emphasis. The Iron Age
flatly declared that in the existing condition of the industry nothing
but a broad and deep cut would restore equilibrium in the trade, and it
intimated that financial afiiliations of leading interests in the trade
might prevent even that.
But the time was past when even what was popularly called '^Vall
Street domination" in the steel trade could be of any avail. On
February 19th it was suddenly announced by the head of the United
States Steel Corporation that all previous schedule prices and fixed
agreements were abrogated, and that from that time on, until further
notice, there would be an **open market" in the steel trade. This meant
competitive cutting and competitive searching for orders by the billion-
dollar corporation as well as by all others. It was followed immediately
304: *Effi FORUM
by reductions in prices of steel ranging from $5 to $10 per ton, accord-
ing to the articles affected and the nature of the business.
Naturally, such a decision disconcerted and alarmed the financial
market. It was followed by great demoralization on the Stock Exchange.
The point to keep in mind is that an open market in the steel trade had
not been witnessed since the Steel Corporation itself was organized in
1901; in fact, the purchase of the Carnegie Company and the organiza-
tion of the Trust itself were effected by Mr. Morgan primarily in order
to put an end to price wars. In the preceding year, 1900, when the
financial distress of England and Germany, consequent on the Boer
War, had cut off the foreign demand for American steel, an open mar-
ket had been witnessed, in the course of which steel was cut from $41
per ton to $17. In the period following the panic of 1893 steel prices
fell from $22 per ton in the middle of the panic year to $15 in the
ensuing March. Nothing of the kind had been witnessed since the
organization of the Steel Trust; the $4 cut of September, 1904, in the
temporary depression of that period, was a formal lowering of the
scheduled price in which all manufacturers participated and which left
the trade agreement as to maintenance of prices exactly where it was
before.
What will be the upshot in the present situation is a matter of con-
jecture; as this is written, the price war and the open market are stili
in active progress, though by no means with the virulence which has
marked previous episodes of the sort. It is reasonable to suppose that,
ap time goes on, the overshadowing power of the United States Steel Cor-
poration will make itself felt in the way of averting complete demoraliza-
tion and of gradually bringing about a more normal condition at a
level of prices properly adapted to the consumer's situation. When that
occurs, and when it is evident tliat there will be no further violent
smash of steel prices, it will be time to look for the consujjier on a scale
on which he has not yet been willing to send in his orders.
This depression, with the resultant somewhat violent readjustment
of prices, was felt in numerous other trades, chiefiy, however, and quite
naturally, in trades such as copper and lead, where the
Fall in P^^^® ^^^ ^^^ dominated by a powerful corporation.
Other In the case of copper, the history of 1908 had been a
Metals little different from that of steel. Copper had been put
up to 26 cents a poimd on the eve of the panic of 1907.
During the panic, after a prolonged decline forced by the accumulation
of stocks, it fell to 12^ cents in October, 1907. In 1908, however, a rapid
THE TURN IN THE FINANCIAL SITUATION 305
recovery began, in the course of which the price was marked up during
the election boom to 14f cents.
It was rather generally believed, at the close of 1908, that the Amal-
gamated Copper Company, which was mainly behind the movement to
put up prices in the trade, would be able to raise the price considerably
higher still. This notion was based, however, on the supposition that
trade and consequently demand for copper were bound to revive — an
expectation which had been similarly indulged in by the Steel Trust.
Nothing of the sort happened in copper, any more than in steel, and
from the highest price of January, which was 14J cents, copper declined
with great rapidity, touching 12^ cents again on March 16th, with some
sales at lower prices. This was an extremely low price for copper, as may
be judged from the fact that, except for the two or three days in the panic
of 1907, no such price had been reached at any time since 1902. It was,
however, warranted by the statistical showing of the trade. At the
beginning of the present year, the copper producers organized an associa-
tion to report on production, consumption, and stocks on hand —
information which had been suppressed ever since the Amalgamated
Copper Company was organized. The first monthly reports of this
association were a little startling. Production, in the face of the trade
reaction, was shown to be at the highest mark in the history of the
American trade, whereas consumption was not much more than 60 per
cent, of normal. The result was that in January 21,772,000 pounds
of copper accumulated unsold in the hands of producers or dealers, and
in February, 29,164,000. At other times of such accumulation — ^in
1902, for instance — ^the surplus was disposed of through enormous
exports to Europe. But Europe was also hard pressed at the beginning
of 1909; its consumption of copper had decreased almost as much as
ours. At the end of January, stocks of copper in Europe and afloat for
Europe were 52,935 tons, as against 42,134 at the end of July, 1908,
and 20,660 at the end of January a year ago. Our exports in 1909 were
on as small a scale as our home consumption.
It will be seen that the statistical situation fully justified the low
price quoted, notwithstanding the fact that for many copper producers
a twelve-cent price is unremunerative. All other metals moved simi-
larly, reaching a low level of depression during March. In this they
merely repeated experience, the teaching of all our previous episodes of
after-panic reaction being that raw materials of manufacture are the
first and the worst sufferers. This is a logical enough result of the gen-
eral curtailment in consumption and in manufacture. It must be said
that in the present case it was an equally logical result of the extravagant
306 "^^ fOBUM
inflation of prices for all of these OHnniodities^ widchy under tlie anspices
of the dominating trusts^ had been indnlged in during 1906 and 1907.
It cannot be said, howerer, that this same moreraent of extreme
depression ran through eveiy oflier trade; for the dry goods trade reports
were comparatiTelj optimistie at the Teiy time when
One Trade ^^ metal trades were at thdr worst. It is tme, prices
which for textiles were by no means up to the level of the boom
Prospered times. It was pointed ont, in Febmary, that print
goods were sdling then at 5 cents a yard, as against 7
before the panic of 1907; silks at 85 cents against $1.05; sheetings at
8f cents against 12; ginghams at 5f cents against 7. Nevertheless,
these prices were better than had been commanded in the middle of 1908,
and, what was more important, trade was on a basis of eqnilibrinm, the
goods going promptly into consumers' hands and tibe amount of mer-
chandise sold being close to normal The reason for this difference in
the dry goods trade, from the experience of the metal industries, is not
far to seek. It will be remembered that when evidence of the severe
decline in consuming power was manifest, three or four months after
the panic of 1907, the dry goods trade, which is not dominated by a
trust, met the situation promptly in the old-fashioned way, cutting pro-
duction 15 per cent., wages 10 per cent., and prices 25 to 50 per cent.
In other words, the dry goods trade took its medicine early in 1908 and
was fully entitled to the better times which its merchants found in 1909.
When one surveys the movement of prices in general, or what may be
called the average price movement, the index numbers read very cu-
riously, in the light of what we have just surveyed. Taking, for in-
stance, the London Economises index number, we shall find that low
level for the after-panic year was reached on September 1, 1908, when
the index was 2168. From this figure there was a gradual recovery, the
index number finally appearing to settle arouiid a fixed level. It was
2,198 on December Ist, 2,197 at the opening of January, 2,196 in Feb-
ruary, and 2,190 in March. These comparisons raise two natural ques-
tions. Producers, in the first place, are likely to ask how such stabiliiy
of the general price average should have been possible during the very
months when, as we have seen, metals were falling in price with great
rapidity. Consumers, in the meantime, will ask why there has been
no relief from excessive cost of living through the falling prices, of
which they hear so much ? The answer is the same to both questions —
the fall in metal prices has been fully offset by the extraordinary rise
of the period in prices of agriculture.
THE TURN IN THE FINANCIAL SITUATION 397
The wheat situation has itself become sensational during the past
few weeks. In December, cash wheat on the Chicago market ranged
around $1.00 per bushel. From that figure a rise
Violent occurred to $1.10 in January; then, with the last
Rise in week of February, there began a violent upward rush
^^^* to $1.26, in the course of which speculators, profes-
sional and otherwise, rushed into the wheat market
with almost as much vehemence as the Wall Street professionals and the
public had invaded the stock market after last year's election. The""
price of $1.26, reached at the close of February, was, in fact, the highest
touched on the Chicago market at any time since Leiter^s wheat comer in
1898. How much above the average price it was may be judged from the
subjoined table of high and low wheat prices on the cash market at
Chicago during the intervening period : gj i^ ^o^
1008 $1.11, June $0.84%, July
1907 1.22, Oct. .71, Jan.
1906 94%, May .691/8, Sept.
1905 1 .24, Feb. .78%, Sept.
1904 1.22, Dec. .81%, Jan.
1003 93, Sept. .70%,March
1002 95, Sept. .67%, Oct.
1001 79%, Dec. .63y8, July
1000 87%, June .61%, Jan.
1800 70%, May .64, Dec.
1808 1.86, May .62, Oct.
The larger reasons for this rise in wheat are not at all mysterious;
they have already been pointed out in the pages of this magazine. The
world's wheat crop of 1907 was less by 325,000,000 bushels than in
1906, and less by 212,000,000 bushels than in 1905. These are
declines of 7 and 10 per cent., respectively; the wheat crop of 1907
being, in fact, the smallest world's crop since 1901. Population, and,
consequently, use of .wheat as of other necessities of life, had in the
meantime been steadily increasing. It had been hoped that the shortage
of 1907, especially in Europe, would be made good by an abundant crop
in 1908. This did not happen; crops in this country, in Australia and
in Asia, were slightly larger last year than in the year before, but
Europe itself produced less even than in 1907. The English expert
Broomhall makes these estimates of the European harvest for the past
eight years: ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^
1008 1,504,000,000 1004 1,747,262,000
1007 1,616,086,000 1903 1,830,526,000
1006 1,826,422,000 1002 1,817,602,000
1006 1,803,132,000 1001 : 1,513,663,000
Our own Agricultural Department, estimating in March, this year, on
the whole world's wheat crop of 1908, showed 3,172,814,000 bushels as
308 THE FORUM
against 3,142,160,000 in 1907 and 3,432,688,000 in 1906. The increase
over the deficient 1907 crop was only 30,000,000 hushels, and all of this
was accounted for hy the 30,600,000 increase in the United States alone,
which left a crop here of only ordinary magnitude.
Under such conditions it was inevitable that the stock of wheat in
the world's storehouses should fall to very low figures. At the end of
last year's harvest Europe's granaries contained 22 per cent, less of
wheat than they held a year before, and all the rushing forward of
American wheat to market last autumn left the stock of wheat on hand
in Europe and America combined in February of the present year only
137,000,000 bushels, as against 144,000,000 at the same date in 1908
and 160,000,000 in 1907. It was this situation on which the speculators
in wheat were banking in their February movement at Chicago.
There was one uncertain point in their calculations which has not
even yet been wholly cleared up, but on which some interesting light
has subsequently been thrown. This was the question of farm reserves.
When wheat gets up to such extraordinary prices as those of February,
it is a question of supreme importance how much of the grain is left in
the hands of farmers, who are liable to respond to the high bid of the
market. There has been much dispute as to what was left over in this
way from the harvest of 1908. Some Chicago experts had made esti-
mates as low as 100,000,000 bushels, where 148,000,000 was the figure
reported by the Government in March last year, and 206,000,000
bushels at the same time in 1907. The best known private expert of the
Chicago wheat trade had figured out 123,000,000. On March 8th the
Agricultural Department gave out its fall estimate on these farm re-
serves. It was somewhat sensational in character, but not in the way
which had been expected by the trade. The Government estimated
143,000,000 bushels in the hands of farmers, or only 5,000,000 less than
in the preceding year. Although this estimate was vigorously disputed
by the trade, it had the inevitable effect of checking the rise in wheat
and forcing a slow and irregular reaction. To what extent this down-
ward movement is destined to go, or to what extent prices will rise still
higher, depends on other factors, among them on the highly disputed
question, how much wheat will be raised and exported in Argentine,
which is at present this country's principal competitor for the foreign
grain trade? At present, estimates there are less favorable than they
were a few months earlier in the South American harvest season. But,
in the meantime, relatively high prices are inevitable in the great agri-
cultural food stuffs, and unfortunately must serve to keep up the price
of living amongst even the poor.
THE TURN IN THE FINANCIAL SITUATION 309
The eflfect of all of these various incidents on the Stock Exchange dur-
ing the past few months has heen to paralyze all activity. The period of
dulness which has occurred has been of unusual length,
Dulness on ^^^9 except in midsununer, would be difiBcult to match
the Stock without going back a decade. Undoubtedly it marks a
Exchange changing tendency from the feverishly and unnaturally
excited stock markets of last year. As is always Wall
Street's habit, this unwelcome dulness was ascribed to everything except
the obvious causes. At first it was declared that the market was waiting
for Inauguration Day and for the end of the Boosevelt administration,
of which Wall Street had professed itself so much afraid. The inaugu-
ration came and was received by the markets with complete apathy. Mr.
Taft's inaugural did not go very extensively into details, but on the
question of the Boosevelt policies made this pregnant declaration:
I should be untrue to myself, to my promises, and to the declarations of the
party platform upon which I was elected, if I did not make the maintenance and
enforcement of those reforms a most important feature of my administration.
They were directed to the suppression of the lawlessness and abuses of the great
combinations of capital invested in railroads and industrial enterprises. . . .
The steps which my predecessor took, and the legislation passed on his recom-
mendation, have accomplished much, have caused a general halt in the vicious
policies which created popular alarm, and have brought about, in the business
affected, a much higher regard for the existing law.
To which he added :
Relief of the railroads from certain restrictions of the Anti-Trust Law has
been urged by my predecessor and will be urged by me. On the other hand, the
Administration is pledged to legislation looking to a proper Federal supervision
and restriction to prevent excessive issues of bonds and stocks by companies own-
ing and operating interstate commerce railroads.
Manifestly, if Wall Street had the idea that immunity on the part
of offending corporations against prosecution was to be promised by the
new administration it was disappointed. But, as a matter of fact, the
change in administration had no effect, and had no reason to have any
effect, on the condition of the Stock Exchange.
When this landmark failed to bring about reviving activity, it was
declared that the markets were waiting for the tariff bill. In this idea
there was something more of reason; for alterations
in the tariff, either up or down, can hardly occur with-
Tariff ^^^ some effect on business conditions. Where they are
in the nature of reductions of duty, as was expected of
the pending tariff, it will be inevitable that business
plans will at least be deferred in many cases until merchants can know
310 '^^BE FORCM
eiBctlj what the new echediiles are to be. This is as true of importers^
who would welcome an actual free trade bill, as of mannfactnrera, who
wish eren more protection. The tariff bill came np for consideration
at the extra session of Congreas on the 17th of March. It proved to be
quite Bs drastic in its cuts as any one had expected. The House Com-
mittee placed iron ore and hides on the free list; the duty on pig iron
was reduced one-third, the steel rail duty one-half. In many other
important directions, readjustment of large scope was proposed. The
stock market received the news without emotion, became dull for three
or four days after the Ways and Means Committee's announcements,
then started in to rise again.
Possibly this reception was a reasonable forecast of the reception
which industry at large will give to tariff revision. The notion that
industrial and financial markets have invariably been upset through a
prolonged period by revision oi the tariff, especially in the direction of
lower duties, is hardly borne out by the facts. The idea is based, no
doubt, chiefly on the experience of 1894, when a tariff reduction
bill was certainly followed by genuine hard times. The truth about
1894, however, which may be easily ascertained from any financial
review of the period, is that the Wilson tariff, on its introduction and
during the debate upon it, was received with something like
indifference by the financial markets. There was, in fact, a rather sub-
stantial rise in prices during the very period when the debate was
hottest.
By the time the bill had been enacted, however, there occurred three
other incidents which had no possible connection with the tariff bill,
but. which wholly superseded it in their influence on business. These
w(jre the com crop failure, the Railway Union strike, which amounted to
an industrial revolt, and the piling up of a $69,000,000 deficit in the
Treasury, which forced the Government into- an unfavorable loan market
and threatened the absolute destruction of the gold reserve for redemp-
tion of legal tenders. So complete was the attention of the financial
community at the time converged on these formidable influences that
little was said in the discussion on the day^s financial market of the
tariff bill as an influence. It was only in 1896, when a Presidential
campaign was impending, that Senator John Sherman brought forward
the argument that the distresses of 1894 came altogether from "passing
a law reducing revenue below expenditures for the first time since the
Civil War.*^
Now, in the first place, the $69,000,000 deficit of the fiscal year 1894,
all of which was piled up before June 30th of that year, occurred while
THE TURN IN THE FINANCIAL SITUATION 31I
the schedules of the McKinley tariflf of 1890 were in full operation;
and, in the second place, aa we have seen already, there were far greater
influences at work in creating the hard times of the year than could
have been exerted by any tariff bill. Whether the Wall Street idea of
the present season, regarding the influence of the tariff controversy, has
been influenced by the extraordinary speeches of Mr. Taft last autumn,
on the subject of the Wilson Bill and the panic of 1893, may
be left to conjecture. The point of interest is that up to the present
time the stock market has received the tariff reduction propositions in
a spirit of entire calmness — ^this in spite of the fact that other and
larger influences were at work which might easily have explained a
further drop in prices.
All this leaves the future of our finance and industry much more
than usually a matter of conjecture. On the one hand, we have the
spectacle of industrial depression throughout almost
the whole domain of American industry, that depression
Q * , being acute and giving little promise of immediate re-
lief. On the other hand, we have, first, the assurance
that, in this very lowering of prices, the preliminary
steps toward normal readjustment of trade conditions have been taken
as they were not taken — except in the textile industry — during 1908 —
and, second, the assurance that continued prosperity in the agricul-
tural West guarantees a consuming market, which has never before
existed so soon after a great financial panic. Mr. Morgan's dictum that
"the man who is a bear on American prosperity will go broke'* is as true
to-day as it ever was, and it is equally true that the real strength of
industrial America has been displayed in the aftermath of hard times,
when speculative illusions and speculative values had disappeared, and
when our merchants and producers were grappling vigorously with the
realities. But the great achievements of those periods have never come
until after a thorough readjustment of prices, production, and con-
sumption.
Alexander D. Noyes.
THE PATENT RIGHTS OF ARMY AND
NAVY OFFICERS
BY UBUTBNANT-COMMANDER OLBLAND DAVIS, U. 8. N.
Thebe exists among officers and enlisted men of the army and navy
a misapprehension regarding their relations to the Government in the
matter of patents. There is a vague belief that patent laws apply only to
civilians and that officers of the army or of the navy are estopped from
taking out patents; or, if they do so, whatever may be the nature of
these patents, the Government has the right to appropriate them for its
own use.
This impression is calculated to defeat the very purpose for which
provision was made in the Constitution for the establishment of a patent
system. As a matter of fact, officers and enlisted men of the army and
navy have all the rights under the Constitution and under the patent
laws of any other citizen of the United States. Without the incentive of
reward, in the shape either of honors or preferment or money, men
cannot be expected to devote their means and the time outside of their
regular duties to the creation of inventions.
It will lead to a better understanding of this question to give a brief
description of the patent system as it obtains in the United States. The
Constitution provides that, in order to promote the progress of science
and the useful arts. Congress may secure to authors and inventors for
limited times the exclusive right to their writings and discoveries, and
our patent system has grown up under laws made in accordance with
this wise constitutional provision. The inventor, under the law, takes
nothing from the public nor can he monopolize any knowledge the public
already possesses; he can only take that which he creates, and the par-
ticular creation — the new knowledge or new piece of properiy brought
by him into being — can only be taken for a period of seventeen years,
after which period the public comes into its possession by operation of
law. There can be no extension of this monopoly except by a special
act of Congress, and this privilege is seldom or never invoked: conse-
quently every year thousands of patents issued seventeen years before
become the property of the public.
Under the various laws enacted by Congress to carry out this provi-
sion of the Constitution, a patent when once granted to an inventor is a
vested right and one that cannot be taken away from him except by due
process of law. That is to say, neither the Commissioner of Patents, who
granted the patent, nor the Secretary of the Interior, under whose juris-
THE PATENT RIGHTS OF ARMY AND NAVY OFFICERS 313
diction the patent oflBce is placed, nor any oflBcer of the Government, has
any authority to recall it or to cancel it. That can only be done through
the medium of the court empowered to declare it invalid upon proof
showing fraud, or proving that the laws were not complied with when the
patent was originally issued; and this is where our patent laws are de-
fective.
A feeling has grown up, not only among the public generally, but also
in the Government, that a patent is not to be considered valid until
passed upon by the courts. I recall one instance where the Government,
having entered into an agreement to pay a royalty for the use of a certain
invention, ceased payment thereon, while still continuing to use the in-
vention, on the ground that the validity of the patent on which the royal-
ties were based had not been determined by the courts.
As our industries multiply and competition increases, it becomes
more and more important that the rights of the inventor be established
without his being harassed by competitors and put to great expense to
maintain his rights. He should be protected by the Government which
has given him this vested right.
The patent when lawfully issued carries with it the exclusive right to
make, to use and to vend the actual invention throughout the United
States and the territories thereof for the term of seventeen years, and no
person or corporation or the Government itself can encroach upon this
right without becoming liable as an infringer.
There is a popular misapprehension in many minds that a patent,
being a monopoly, is obnoxious to democratic institutions. As a matter
of fact, a patent is in the nature of a contract made between the inventor
on the one hand and the public on the other, in which the public agrees
to reward the inventor for the device he has created, and for the expense
he has incurred in developing the invention ; and the inventor on his part
agrees to relinquish the rights with which he has been vested by the
Government to the public after a limited time. The consideration given
to the inventor by the public is the exclusive right to use his own crea-
tion for seventeen years, and the consideration given to the public by the
inventor is the property itself for all time after the patent has expired.
Of course, it is optional with the inventor whether or not he wishes
to make this contract with the Government. He may prefer, instead of
taking out a patent, to endeavor to keep his discovery a secret. If he
succeeds in this respect, it will be his so long as others do not find out
his secret. However, in modem times the state of education and intellec-
tuality has advanced to such an extent that it is next to imposible suc-
cessfully to conceal secret inventions. This has been the experience with
314 ^™® FORUM
inventions relating to the art of war^ and it has been found practically
impossible to protect secret processes, which have become known in some
cases even before they were pnt in operation.
There is no doubt that there is a great deal of inventive talent in
the army and in the navy which lies dormant^ and this is lost to the
Government. There are several reasons for this. First, lack of knowl-
edge on the part of army and navy officers as to their rights under the
patent laws ; and, second, lack of encouragement on the part of the Gov-
ernment in the way of preferment to successful inventors. Then again,
the exactions of the ofScial duties make it extremely difficult to develop
an invention.
An invention may be considered to consist of two stages. First, the
creation of the idea, and, next, a combination of means to put this idea
into eflfect. The second is by far the more difficult. An officer of the
army or navy is, therefore, under present conditions much handicapped
in making inventions on account of lack of opportunity to work out his
own ideas. Many officers complain that after having submitted their
ideas to the Government, these ideas are pigeon-holed and never devel-
oped. They lose sight of the fact that they are throwing the burden of
the work upon others who may not have the ability to carry out such
ideas, and who, in any event, could not be expected to do other than
choose the path of least resistance and take the view that the idea is not
capable of being successfully put into practice.
As stated before, an officer of the army or the navy, as well as an
enlisted man, has the same right under the patent laws as any other
citizen of the United States, and the (Jovemment cannot deprive him of
the fruits of any invention that he might make, subject to the limita-
tions imposed by law — for the very simple reason that patent rights, as
above stated, are vested private property, and the Constitution prohibits
the Government from taking private property from its citizens without
just compensation. In fact, it has been held by the courts that Congress,
in view of this constitutional provision, could not pass a valid law
authorizing the Government to ignore vested patent rights without just
compensation, any more than it could pass a law authorizing the Gov-
ernment to appropriate to itself a farm or a house or a lot without just
compensation. Even in the exercise of its right of eminent domain, those
concerned have a claim for relief.
The decision of the Supreme Court in the case of United States vs.
Bums (12 Wall., 246) employs in part the following language:
If an officer in the military service, not specially employed to make experi-
ment! with a view to suggest improvements, devise a new and valuable improve-
THE PATENT RIGHTS OF ARMY AND NAVY OFFICERS 315
ment in arms, tents, or any other kind of war material, he ia entitled to the
benefit of it and to letters patent for the improvement, from the United States,
equally with any other citizen not engaged in such service; and the Qovernment
cannot, after the patent is issued, make use of the improvement any more than a
private individual without license of the inventor or making compensation to him.
This means that an officer must be specially designated to make im-
provements in any branch whatsoever. Whether it be in ordnance or in
construction or in electricity, he is entitled to the benefit of anything
he might invent and is at perfect liberty to sell the invention to the Gov-
ernment, or to any private individual. In case such invention can be used
to advantage by the Government, it is proper, but only ethically, that he
should give the Government the first opportunity to acquire the rights
to his invention, but, under the law, he is not even compelled to do this.
This does not mean that the Government always actually pays on its
own initiative for the patented inventions it uses, for it sometimes ignores
the military man, as well as the civilian, as is evidenced by the numerous
suits which have been brought against it. But, on the other hand, the
Government has repeatedly paid for the inventions of its officers, and a
few instances may be mentioned as follows : The Mills woven cartridge
belt, the Dashiell breech mechanism, the Fiske telescopic sight, the Fiske
range finder, the Driggs-Schroeder gun, the Fletcher breech mechanism,
and the Sibley tent.
The misapprehension that exists in the army and navy on these points
is, no doubt, due to the fact that the law is such that if an inventor while
in the army or navy works out an invention under the direction of his
superior, using Government time and Government facilities in perfecting
the same, the Government has a shop right in the invention; but this
same law applies to civil employers and employees as well, and it there-
fore constitutes no exception in the case of the military professions. This
shop right, however, extends only to the Government itself, and cannot
be delegated by it to an outside private concern.
A further misapprehension regarding patents is general in both mili-
tary and civil walks of life, and that is the almost universal belief that
a patent taken out abroad prevents its use in this country.
The facts are, that just as a United States patent is of no eflfect what-
ever bejDnd the jurisdiction of the United States, a foreign patent is of
no effect whatever beyond the jurisdiction of the government that issues
it. In other words, a patent taken out in the United States may be
freely used in all foreign countries, unless it is also patented in tiiose
countries. And again, the publication of a patent in the United States
will generally bar the grant of an infringing patent in foreign countries.
816 THE FORUM
Another common misapprehension is the idea that it is perfectly
proper for an officer of the army or navy